Aliens vs Predator III
by Lord CrutchCricket
Summary: Sequel to AVP2 the game. Weyland is facing criminal charges for his company's accident. But when a new force saves him from jail is it a blessing in disguise? Or a new nightmare? As the 3 species face off, Weyland learns not all is as it seems...
1. The Trial

Disclaimer: If you think I own AVP you're a moron. Shoot yourself now. Just do it. If that does not sound legal enough:

I do not own Aliens Vs Predator, its trademark or its revenues. Should any person reading this story herby named "fanfic" believe, assume or in any way indicate that said author has any claim to said story, having freely posted it on a Web sit herby known as ", said person(s) have 1 business day to commit suicide in the manner they so choose on the grounds that said person(s) are too stupid to live. (Section 267 of the Copyright for Dummies Constitution Paragraph 5)

That out of the way, onto the story.

Aliens Vs Predator III

The LV-1201 Incident was regarded by all as the single greatest failure in the history of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. Two facilities completely destroyed as well as invaluable archaeological remains. Research data painfully acquired over a period of 2 years, billions of dollars lost. And the casualty list would make anyone feel sick. Losses were total. No one had survived. Researchers, specimens, mercenaries all dead and now just a pile of radioactive slag on the planet's surface. Only the marine unit sent it to rescue them had escaped though many of them had not made it. The faith and influence formerly commanded by Weyland-Yutani had died along with everything else when the bomb went off. And the damn data was still incomplete. What had really caused this catastrophe? What did it matter though, the small details and facts. Raymond Weyland III was going to hang for this. All his other developments on planets, the careful system of planets he had manged to create would all be taken from him. The last member of the Yutani family had died shortly before and he had inherited the entire company. He hadn't kept the name just out of respect. He had hoped to keep the influence as well. Everyone had admired and loved the old man. But not him. No he was too ambitious, too greedy but ultimately a coward. When they'd had to send in the marines he had let the old man negotiate and handle the press. Now he was ruined. The small army of lawyers the corporation had wouldn't be able to save him now.

"It's time, Mr. Weyland," his assistant said. He was standing in the doorway waiting.

"Very well, Arthur," Weyland got up from his desk, gathered his papers and stuffed them in his briefcase. He strode across the room where Arthur had his coat ready. Weyland took it without another word and walked out of the office, down a corridor to the elevator. Arthur followed him, and together the two men stepped into the elevator. Arthur pressed the button for the lobby and the elevator began moving down. Neither man spoke. Weyland was too lost in though and Arthur could not find and means to a conversation. Silently they arrived in the lobby where three lawyers greeted them.

"Mr Weyland! Don't worry about a thing. My associates and I will take care of everything," one lawyer said. Weyland just nodded unconvinced and the group proceeded towards the waiting limo.

"Oh Mr. Weyland, I almost forgot!" Arthur said when they were outside. "A certain Mr. Van Grey called this morning. He said he must speak to you as to a matter that is very urgent. Do you know him?"

No, I've never heard of him," Weyland answered, frowning. "Did he mention anything more specific?"

"No sir he said nothing more."

"Mr Weyland your trial..." one lawyer interjected before Weyland could say anything else.

"Right. We'll discuss this when we come back," Weyland conclude and got into the car. The limo drove off silently, leaving Arthur alone in the street.

The trial should have been private. However Weyland arrived in a room barely under its maximum limit. He wondered briefly what the ration was ratio was, how many supporters he had and how many people wanted to see him burn. He walked with all the calmness he could muster and sat in his seat. The lawyers surrounded him and began throwing various strategies at him, all of which he barely heard. All he could focus on was the smug face of the prosecutor who knew that at long last he had him in his power.

"All rise! The honourable judge Harry Eliot presiding," the bailiff called. The room stood as the judge walked to his place and sat down.

"All right. Today we have the case of the state vs. Mr. Raymond Weyland III and the Weyland-Yutani Corporation. Would the defence begin with their opening statements?" the judge intoned.

"Yes, your Honour," the head lawyer rose from his seat and began. "Your honour the case you see before you today is but an accident and though as horrible as accidents come..."

Weyland could no longer focus on the words. All he could do was look at the faces of the jury. There was no sympathy there, no support. He shifted and looked at the judge but his face was carefully expressionless.

"...as in any complex systems any small chink can disrupt the entire..."

"...your Honour, the defendant had several psychological test run on his staff? Did he not see they were unsuitable to run such a project? If you'll look at General Rykov..."

The droning continued. There was a time when Weyland himself was called to the stand. Though he answered all questions truthfully there was a sense of detachment as if he was a man who sees death come for him and ignores the actual means by which he dies.

"...based on Eisenbergs history alone we can see that..."

Just when it seemed as if it would never end, one of his lawyers shook him slightly. Everyone was looking at him.

"What..." oh. The judge was leaving. Weyland stood up as if propelled by springs. The judge gave him a look then left the courtroom. People began to file out.

"Ok Mr. Weyland. The jury will have their verdict by Friday. That's four days from now. Do I have your go-ahead to employ... other means of securing our verdict if we did not convince them enough?"

"Yeah. Sure. You do what you have to, right?" Weyland said. He began walking towards the exit, his lawyers following him. Just as he was about to leave the room a man intercepted him and stuck out his hand.

"Mr. Weyland I presume? My name is Jason Van Grey. Did you get my message?"

This man surprised Weyland. For starters he was very young. He couldn't have been any more than 35. His face too although wearing a smile, had an almost sinister quality to it.

"Yes I did. Unfortunately I was tied up," Weyland replied. "Well if you'll excuse me I have other business to attend to. I'll find a time to talk with you. How can I contact you?"

"Mr. Weyland time is not a commodity I have nor one I want to waste. You may have to cancel your other business. What I have to say will interest you greatly I assure you. It might even interest the jury into giving you another chance."

Weyland could only stare dumbfounded. The man's smile widened. "If you'll follow me." Slowly Weyland began walking forward.

"Your lawyers don't need to be present," the man said. Weyland nodded and dismissed them. He followed the man as if in a dream.

Ok so it starts off slow. But stick with it and it'll get better. Reviews are welcome.

-CrutchCricket


	2. The Blooding

Disclaimer: I don't own AVP blah blah blah...you're a tool if you think so etc. etc. onto the story.

The pyramid was a maze of shifting dark hallways and crawl spaces. Somber statues and sinister carvings were its only decoration. However a stranger would not realise the significance of such a structure until it was too late. Despite the chill it would send up the back of a human, the pyramid was lifeless and unmoving. One might even say it was dull and only the keenest archaeologists would find any interest in it. Such was the building in which a strange procession was moving through. Leading off were two humanoid figures. Behind them a bunch of humans walked chained together with two more humanoid figures bringing up the rear. The humans faces were blank, all hope lost. They knew what was coming but could not escape. They didn't even glance up at their masters as they led them into a round chamber. Ten stone tables were arranged in a semi-circle with a sewer hole in the middle. On each table a carcass lay there, its dusty frame still visible in the poor light. Two creatures stepped up and pushed the carcasses off the tables and kicked them to the outskirts of the room. Once this was done the humans were motioned to the tables where they laid down and waited to be bound. One human, a female, suddenly got up and made for the door. The creatures easily blocked her path and began forcing her onto the table.

"No! You can't do this! I'm a person! I have a family!" the female screamed. "Help me!!" All she received were blank looks from the rest of the humans. She kneed the nearest creature in the groin, which released her to tend to his own pain. She was about to try and run again when another stepped up, snarled in annoyance and backhanded her, sending her flying across the room. The first creature, now recovered roared and clenched his right fist. Twin three-feet long blades erupted from the device on his arm and he advanced towards the human with murder in his masked eyes. The second rushed forward and retained him chattering continuously. The first creature snarled, but retracted his blades. He strode over and picked up the human by the neck. She was just recovering consciousness. He brought her to the table dropped her and bound her like the rest. This being done, the four creatures departed leaving the humans to their fate.

Aboard the ship a single Predator stood, hunched over the table on which a small device lay. He slowly manipulated the delicate tools, operating on the device while occasionally glancing at the nearby computer screen, which displayed a series of schematics and strange symbols. The Predator connected two wires and the device hummed. His mandibles chattered in satisfaction as he picked up another tool. He was about to move on to the final stage in the completion of the device when he was interrupted by a loud chattering followed by a sound which could've been interpreted as a Predator sneer. He turned to see a new predator, this one dressed in full hunting armour and holding his Celtic helmet under his arm. This new predator pointed at the device, sneered and chattered some more. Why was he wasting his time with toys when he could be training for the hunt?

The predator working on the device replyed and it was evident he didn't like the new arrival nor did he like the interruption. Thus he said so and told the Celtic off and watched with perfect calmness as the Celtics mandibles opened, closed and clicked several times in anger. As he was doing this it occurred to the first predator that he might have made an error. If the Celtic continued to get worked up this might end in a duel. He was not afraid, because he knew duels are almost never to the death and he was certainly not afraid of the Celtic. He would regret however, not completing the device before the hunt. He was saved however, from further quarrelling as another predator walked in chattered to the Celtic briefly then left. The Celtic was clearly unhappy that he could not finish it but obeyed the summons and left. The Predator gladly returned to his work. A small component left to attach and the device was completed. The predator's mandibles clicked in delight. He picked up the device, examined it, tested its weight then pressed a button on it. Three small prongs, arranged in a triangle shot out from the bottom. The predator placed the device on his forearm and pressed the button again. The prongs locked in and the device beeped. Twin barrels rose from the device. The predator clenched his fist and the device beeped several times. It worked! The firing mechanism worked. But would it be compatible with his energy pack? He strode across the room, picked it up and attached it to the device. He then strapped it on his back and looked around the room for a target. He spotted a round fruit, which he had not eaten yet and aimed for it. He clenched his fist. A rapid tsweew could be heard as twin bolts of yellow light streaked towards the fruit. They passed through the fruit splattering its orange contents everywhere. The predator could not have been happier. The energy flechette was a complete success. Although an ancient weapon, the predator had studied the records of its use in battle. It was known to drain energy quickly and it was no match for a plasmacaster but when all else failed this fireable device attached to the wristblades had saved many a predator's lives. All that was left was to test it in actual battle. Still chattering joyously he procceded to put away his tools. When that was finished he wondered what to do next. He still had time to spare, about an hour or so. An idea began forming in his mind. A toy, the Celtic had called it. Perhaps the predator should demonstrate exactly what his "toy" could do. He left his quarters and began walking in the direction of the training area.

The room was huge, about the size of a Central Park. It was filled with all kinds of vegetation high peaks and low caverns. Nearly every terrain imaginable was somehow wormed in this massive artificial ecosystem. As one entered all he saw was a mass of vegetation. On the right stood a rack full of weapons from little side blades to plasmacasters. On the left was a computer terminal, which controlled the aspects of the room. This is what the predator saw as he entered in search of Celtic and his other comrades. He spotted two human, pulse rifle raised, moving slowly through the foliage. One human lowered his gun to signal to the other and promptly got his head removed from his shoulders. The body sputtered blood and fell in a heap. The other human began firing wildly and running backwards, towards the spot where the Predator stood. However as soon as his feet touched the metal floor he shimmered and vanished. The body of the first one also vanished. There came an annoyed roar from the jungle and Celtic uncloaked and jumped from his hiding place. Another Light Predator appeared holding a spear gun. Both of them were clearly annoyed that their hunt had been disrupted. Why couldn't anyone program the holos right? Then noticing the predator, Celtic walked towards him arrogantly plasmacaster in the ready position. His mandibles clicked disdainfully as he talked. Was he going to train or bother them with more of his toys? The predator calmly held up two human skulls he had gotten from the trophy room. They weren't worth much as the hunter who claimed them had died, and the skulls themselves were damaged. He bade Celtic place them on the rack, and moved a few feet away. He pressed the button on his wrist and the energy flechette sprang into the ready position. Celtic positioned the skulls and stood by impatiently examining his wristblades. The predator clenched his fist and watched with satisfaction as the yellow beams sliced through the skull, sending pieces flying. He even had the good luck of a piece hitting Celtic in the face. That got his attention. His arm moved in a blur and shot the other skull. Then whirling around his eyes found a fake fruit on a tree and he reduced that to a pile of mush on the ground. He whirled again and came up with the flechette pointed directly at Celtic. The latter made a surprised sound all arrogance gone from his figure while the light predator chuckled silently. The predator pushed the button on his wrist and Celtic relaxed. Before anything more could be said or done an Elder walked into the room, his cape swirling his decorations making clinking sounds. Immediately all predators in the room bowed in acknowledgement. The elder returned this then his serious face collapsed. He smiled (or as much as a predator can smile) and expressed his good humour at the sight he had just witnessed. He congratulated the predator on the successful completion of the weapon however outdated. The predator allowed a little of his pride to show as he explained that such a weapon, though outdated was not entirely useless. In the hands of a desperate predator it could make a formidable weapon indeed. The Elder laughed and agreed but his face sobered almost instantly. His revered face was dead serious and even a bit scary to behold. It was time. The blooding would begin shortly. The elder left the room with the three predators following silently.


	3. The Proposal

Moron (pronounced more-on): 1 one with little or no intelligence that fails to notice the obvious like the fact that the author(s) of fanfics like AVPIII do not actually own said franchises (n). 2 one that possesses a total brain mass and capability similar to that of a peanut shell which may have at one time or another been up a human crevice and is now found in the living room of some stoner who had a party the night before and still has not awoken from his substance influenced sleep (n). see also tool, idiot, dumbass

Raymond Weyland was still in a daze as the car pulled up to a large building in the middle of the city. From the outside it looked like a simple office building. In fact it looked too simple. There was no marking on it, no indication of whom it belonged to. Jason Van Grey motioned the driver to stop and got out. Weyland also got out and the two men proceeded to the entrance. Van Grey got the door and opening it wide, motioned him inside. Weyland entered a large lobby and the first impression he received was that the company was still moving. Tools could be seen lying around and there was not a single piece of furniture inside other than a reception desk.

"Please excuse the mess," Van Grey was saying. "Most of this building belongs to a real estate company. My offices are on the fourteenth floor.

This surprised Weyland. The way Van Grey had presented himself, had led him to believe Van Grey was a fellow corporate man or perhaps an important investor. As if reading his thoughts, Van Grey continued. "I don't need a lot of space for what I do, Mr Weyland, but the space I occupy, I use it effectively I assure you."

"What exactly do you do?" Weyland asked. He was replied to by another one of Van Grey's incomprehensible smiles. "I merely help out fellow corporations in need."

"And how is that?"

"I provide what is lacking."

The men had reached the elevator. The security guard behind the desk looked at them briefly nodded to Van Grey but instead of moving on to his work he continued to eye Weyland. He pretended not to notice but the guard unnerved him. In fact this whole situation unnerved him. He considered telling Van Grey but decided against it. What would he do anyway? It wasn't his employee. He made a mental note to find out the name of the real estate company and take it up with them. Take what up, his overexcited mind asked. A security guard looked at you funny? They'd laugh at him even harder. Calm down he told himself. You are just here to find out if this man can help you. If you don't like what he has to offer, just leave. Weyland breathed a little easier as the elevator began its ascent to the fourteenth floor. During this Van Grey noticed his uneasiness and smiled inwardly. For one of the most successful businessmen he was sadly predictable.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened. They stepped out on cool marble and approached the front desk.

"Wait here Mr. Weyland this won't take a minute," Van Grey said and left him standing at the desk. Weyland took the time to look around and see what he could derive from his surroundings.

The front desk here was nicer than the one downstairs. To the left and right were offices and other rooms but he could not see inside because of the tainted windows. Some working equipment could be seen here indicating that Van Grey too had only recently moved here. He looked at the logo on the wall behind the receptionist. CRS it intoned in bold letters. The receptionist was talking on the phone in the sort of cool monotone voice you would expect from a recording. Indeed she sounded unnatural as if this was a rehearsed speech.

"I'm sorry you were rejected sir. You shouldn't feel this reflects negatively on you. There were compatibility issues on your application. Thank you for choosing CRS. Have a nice day," she hung up before the person on the other end could reply, looked at Weyland and smiled but the smile held no warmth. He tried to return it but could not do so. At that moment Van Grey returned.

"Mr. Weyland if you'll come this way please," Van Grey motioned into the office he just came from.

Weyland stepped in the office. It two seemed as if it was not completed. The only decoration in the room was a painting of a clown hung on the far side of the room. Van Grey sat down and Weyland followed suit.

"As I said before Mr. Weyland, time is not something I easily waste so let us get right down to it. I can help you. I want to help you and in a way it is my job to help you. However some agreements must be made."

"Before we get into that," Weyland broke in. "you would do well to explain to me exactly who you are and what you do. You say you can help me but nothing compels me to even listen to you at this moment. You think I'll agree to something when I have no idea as to what I'm agreeing to? You dragged me from my business and I want to know exactly why. My time is also valuable and I want to conserve it as best I can."

Van Grey just smiled again "Well Mr. Weyland I hardly think I need tell you my life story, after all it's not me that will hang before the jury tomorrow. Still as you have some right to understand what it is you've been "dragged into" as you put it I will explain. Listen carefully. Now I have amassed quite a fortune over the years, never mind how. There is not a lot of difference between you and me in that aspect. But other than pour my money on expensive installations and other projects doomed to fail I merely wait for something interesting to pop up"

"What are you talking about?" Weyland asked. The singularity of this man continued to amaze him. Who was he? What did he want?

"I'm talking about hobbies Mr. Weyland, hobbies although mine tend to be a little more expensive that joining the local golf club or collecting stamps. When one no longer has to work he turns to hobbies for fear of growing bored or dying without having a chance to enjoy the fortune he has worked so hard for. This," he indicated to the office and the entire floor "this is my current hobby. A company that involves itself in the difficulties of other companies with the purpose of aiding a fellow in need. I styled it Corporate Revitalization Service. A little confusing I'll admit, but I've always been fond of that particular acronym. Now as it turns out it is you who needs my help, it is you, the business giant, the great Weyland-Yutani Corporation at which my next challenge will present itself."

"You do all this for fun?" Weyland asked incredulously. "Use your own fortune to assist others in making theirs? What profit can you possibly derive from this? You must do it for profit because I'm not buying the charity act if that's what you're implying."

"You ask what profit? A fair question, I suppose. I do ask a small fee not large enough to cause them any loss of sleep. But that's only the tip of the iceberg. In this we are different you and I. You ask what profit but think of only a small part of it. It is no use explaining the extent of my benefit because we would be wasting time and I doubt you would understand my motives. Now you know who I am and what I do. Does that clarify anything for you?"

"Not really I have more questions," Weyland replied and indeed his head was swimming with questions to ask.

"Just as I thought. We really have no more time to spend idly. If you doubt the validity of my company here are some, shall we say 'satisfied customers'" with that Van Grey handed him a piece of paper.

Weyland scanned through it. Most of the names on there were familiar to him. He made a note to call them but otherwise was satisfied for the moment. Van Grey seeing this smiled and got down to it.

"Mr. Weyland, you wish to understand your failure correct? You want to know what went wrong? The answer is easier than you think. You are familiar with chaos theory?"

Weyland frowned. "Something in math, right?"

"Yes," Van Grey said. "Rather the problem with math from a certain point of view. The world of mathematics has been confined to the linear world for centuries. That is to say, mathematicians and physicists have overlooked dynamical systems as random and unpredictable. The only systems that could be understood in the past were those that were believed to be linear, that is to say, systems that follow predictable patterns and arrangements. Linear equations, linear functions, linear algebra, linear programming, and linear accelerators are all areas that have been understood and mastered by the human race. However, the problem arises that the universe we live in is by no means linear. Everything from drinking a glass of water to designing some new super metal is non-linear and therefore we run into complications every time we assume such events can be reduced to a set of equations that work in every case. Although it was discovered back in the 20th century chaos theory has been mostly ignored. Who cares about non-linear systems and all that junk when you develop space travel and even have the technology to change the atmosphere of entire worlds?"

Weyland didn't miss the allusion but didn't know how to react. It was evident however that Van Grey didn't expect him to react at all for he continued without pause.

"Chaos theory is long and arduous and neither of us has the time or use to describe its full implications. Frankly there are only a couple of points I want to highlight. When we refer to systems, we mean everything that plays a part in the action or purpose of what we're discussing. Take a pool table for example. You got your balls and cues and table. That's your system. You know pool is a game of angles, so you get out your pad of paper and start predicting angles. But say you only want to predict the path of one ball. You measure out all your angles and figure out exactly which hole it'll go in and how many times it'll hit a side before it does. This way if the ball was to move around forever you could predict exactly where it'd go far into the future. But as soon as you hit that ball, things start to happen. Little imperfections in the surface of the ball or the table begin to affect its path. The way you hit it, how much chalk was on your cue, friction, all of these add up until it overthrows your careful calculations and it all goes to hell. Now that's a simple system. Let's put all the balls in and try to predict the path of the rest of them. Now you got way more sources for potential errors, which will happen inevitably. So you end up from what was to be a simple game of angles to balls hitting each other and going everywhere."

"Is there a point to all this?" Weyland asked impatiently. For the first time Van Grey's smile disappeared and his brow darkened.

"The point is that you can either let me finish or go back out there and face bankruptcy and possibly criminal charges. I've said I don't waste my time so I won't allow other to waste it as well. For the last time are you interested in my proposition or are you too anxious to go back to your lawyers who by now have undoubtedly cooked up another failing defense plan." The sharp, unforgiving way in which Van Grey said this caused Weyland to bite back his reply and just stare.

Van Grey settled down and began again. "The point I was making before your interruption is that even the most simple of systems can fail horribly. And since complex systems fail the most it is fairly easy to conclude that such a complex system as two facilities build on a uninhabited planet far removed from civilization to study the greatest species of killers this universe has ever known is quite prone to failure indeed."

"You're saying that it can't be done? That there's no way to study the aliens without risking the death of everyone involved?" Weyland asked.

"No merely that we haven't found the right way to do it yet. But I'll get to that. The second aspect of the problem is an outside factor. An outside factor introduced in an already faulty, failure-prone system guarantees failure. Your little system on LV-1201 did not fall merely because of non-linear circumstances."

Weyland was totally confused. What outside factor? In a way what Van Grey had said before made sense. There were so many things he hadn't considered. The mental stability of Eisenberg for one. The shady past of Rykov. The sheer dumb luck of a facehugger that managed to infest and grow a full-fledged drone. Could he possibly be referring to Rykov's deranged reports of a third species, which hunts invisibly and removes the heads of its victims? Sheer nonsense to be sure. Van Grey once again predicting his thoughts smiled and continued.

"Here, listen to this," he took a paper from his desk. "It's a medical log from pod 3. 'Surgery to remove forearm device has failed. Physically the subject was very strong. Then as the device was removed pneumonic arrest occurred. This weapon has obvious tamper proofing but what race would prefer its soldiers to die rather than be disarmed?' Interesting isn't it. I have one more. 'I don't understand how this race could've missed our SETI transmissions all these years. They are obviously very advanced. Rykov says they're hunting us. I hope he's just being paranoid.'"

Weyland's jaw actually dropped. "No. My analysts went over the surviving records again and again. There was no mention of this. I can't claim this."

"Then perhaps you had better find some new analysts. This information is genuine, I assure you. And the creatures do exist."

"It's impossible. According to what they tell me these things would've come to earth if they were real."

"But they did come to earth, Mr. Weyland. In fact according to one person's story one of them killed your predecessor, the first Weyland who started your company." Van Grey's smile grew wider as Weyland continued to stare beyond all words now.

"Listen carefully. The first reports came from a Major Dutch. No other name. One of these things stalked and annihilated his entire unit in South America. He claims to have fought it to the death. Before dying the thing activated a self-destruct device the size of a small nuke. No evidence just two eyewitnesses. Second case was reported about 10 years later in L.A. Some cop claimed to have fought one to the death on board its ship. Again no evidence. According to Harrigan (that's the cop) after he killed it a bunch more showed up and supposedly let him live. He said he was given a sort of token from their leader. He was found with a pistol from the 1700."

"This is true?" Weyland wondered.

"Yes, its right out of the history books. Both Harrigan and Dutch described much of the same technology. Cloaking able to rend the creature invisible, blades that sprout from the arms, and shoulder guns that blow a hole through a man without leaving anything behind," Van Grey replied. "Harrigan's report gives much more as to the weapons so we have to assume the creature was more advanced than what Dutch fought in South America. I won't bore you with the details. You have them all here anyway. Full reports made by both witnesses, sketches of the creature based on the reports and a full military debriefing from the agency that tracked the thing in L.A before Harrigan was let in the loop." Van Grey gave him a bound package. Weyland opened it and skimmed through. It was all there. Pages of dense text and quotes until he finally came to the sketch. He was shocked by how much it resembled the reports from his own scientists. The large humanoid frame, the broad forehead and metal dreadlocks, the mandibles, all shockingly close to what he had just minutes earlier thought of as nothing more than pressure getting to the overworked scientists on LV-1201.

Van Grey watched with satisfaction as Weyland looked at the package. Things were going as planned. "You mentioned my ancestor," Weyland spoke at last. Van Grey nodded and pulled out another package from his desk this one considerably smaller.

"Yes, I had saved this for last because it was a personal matter to you. However I am happy to say that Charles Weyland indirectly provided us with the proof that these creatures do in fact exist. I'm getting ahead of myself please excuse me. This incident happened in 2004. The Weyland of that time was already a successful businessman in the field of robotics among others. He discovered a pyramid below the ice of Antarctica built in ancient times. According to the reports this pyramid was build by the creatures in question or perhaps for them. It was build to house another species with which you are more familiar with" If a flash of lightning had struck that office Weyland could not have been more surprised "The Xenomorphs?" he asked in a shockingly small voice.

"Indeed. Apparently our friend like to hunt and what would be more challenging that the greatest killing machine in the universe? This pyramid was built to trap humans in it for the breeding and hunting of Xenomorphs. Unfortunately the pyramid was destroyed by a small nuclear device (hint, hint). The entire expedition was killed save one. Would you like to know how your many times great-great grandfather died?"  
Weyland could only nod. His power of speech had left him completely.

"According to the survivor he was killed by one of these creatures that you have denied their existence for so long," Van Grey said his eyes no longer smiling but looking like twin orbs straight from hell. Weyland actually recoiled from the sight and shrunk back in his chair.

"Now you know all that I know. Is that sufficient information to hear my proposition or do you need more?"

Weyland couldn't make up his mind wether to nod or shake his head so he just twitched somewhat spastically. Van Grey ignored this and continued.

"I have recently purchased a site on a planet. Its undeveloped and only God knows what lives there. However initial scans have indicated the presence of the technology of our third friends, the Pilots."

Weyland finally regained his speech. "What do you want from me?"

"Your finest facility installed there with all accessories and no expense omitted. I reserve the right to hire the help as far as security goes. I also have some prototypes to test there I'm sure you won't mind. My assistant will get in touch with you to deliver the specifics."

"But why?" Weyland asked.

"To prove to the world that you can do something remotely dangerous without screwing it up and to conquer those troublesome Aliens once and for all."

"No," Weyland said. "No I won't have anything to do with it. Not Xenomorphs."

"I don't want to be anywhere near a live drone any more than you do. But this isn't about the xenomorphs specifically. My experts tell me that the pilots had some method of mind control or something like it to control these beasts. That is my goal that is what I'm looking for. You can help me and take part of the credit. Or you can risk going to jail" Van Grey snatched the sheets from Weyland before the latter had time to react. "What's it going to be?"

Weyland could see the trap. He was helpless. He knew without that information his lawyers would never get him off. "I agree," he said with considerable resignation.

Van Grey's eyes flashed and his smile appeared, greater than ever.

"Excellent. I'm glad that's settled. I won't take any more of your time as I assume you have a court case to prepare." After he said this he handed the sheets back to Weyland and escorted him to the door.


	4. The Hunt Begins

This is your brain: "Fanfics yay!"

This is your brain on drugs: "Oh shit son!! Do these people own the concepts they're writing about?" Yeah you need to stop sniffing household cleaning materials and get out more. Tool. For the rest of you, we proudly present the story (oh yeah, don't do drugs):

The three young predators were gathered in the main chamber. They were standing in the middle unmoving, watched by a dozen older blooded predators. The Predator who had constructed the energy flechette still had it attached to his arm. He was only slightly nervous for he knew what came ahead. The bugs. They would fight the bugs. And when they succeeded, when they killed them all, they would be full hunters. Beside him Celtic stood with more of a swagger, his arrogance evident. On the other side the light predator clicked softly. The elder was the only one sitting, his cloak providing extra cushioning on the large throne. He made the clicking and chattering noises that were the language of his people. He explained what all of them, even the young ones already knew but the practical as well as ceremonial need to go over it again forced them to listen. They were the Arg'thei clan considered the elite among the predators. For countless generation the Arg'thei have hunted without flaw. On the homeworld Arg'thei females were treated almost like goddesses and had the largest territories and the best food. The males similarly were unsurpassed in respect and fighting skill and with good cause.

All the elders before him had trained and hunted with the best of the species and he intended to do no different. The elder indicated to the pyramid outside and continued. This was the last of the blooding pyramids, the last breeding grounds for the xenomorphs. Other clans had to hunt humans or other creatures for their blooding and thus were inferior. The humans had bred xenomorphs in the past but those situations were too unstable for an inexperienced predator. The most recent incident had nearly decimated the Sarg'ath clan and they were not fools by any means. Also, due to the loss of the last pyramid on earth, release of the xenomorphs and control of the queen was controlled by the ship not by a switch in the pyramid. The three young would be constantly monitored. If they failed, the pyramid would be shut down instantly and the xenomorphs herded and killed at the convenience of the elders. But they must not fail. The Arg'thei had not failed in generations and must continue that tradition.

The chests of all the predators in the room more noticeably the young ones had swelled visibly. Their pride was evident. Celtic's gaze was bloodthirsty and eager to prove and even the light predator who always seemed to be in the background was beaming. The elder ignored the older predators but focused on the three standing before him. His gaze was intense and all of them shrunk back slightly. The elder's growl was not something either of them wished to hear. Had the elder been human he most likely would've shouted: "Fools! Arrogance and overconfidence will be your downfall when dealing with xenomorphs! They are not to be underestimated, just killed." As it was, he said all this merely with a growl and a couple of clicks of his mandibles. Then not wishing to delay any further he said the ceremonial phrase which began the blooding hunt. Translated it would probably have been something along the lines of "Let the blooding begin". But such simple words instantly caused the room to erupt in cheers and roars. The elder and two pre-selected, blooded predators escorted the young hunters to the armouries.

Inside the pyramid, deep underground a large chamber came to life. In the middle the floor was opening revealing white mist below. Chains secured to the walls and ceiling began hauling and odd-looking contraption. Chained to this contraption was a mass of ice. The shape of the ice and what it actually was would've sent a human screaming for the hills and even a predator wouldn't stick around unless he was heavily armed and accompanied by more of his kin. A mechanism fired from somewhere in the room, sending electricity through the frozen corpse. It fired again and maintained the shocks running along it. The thing began to thaw, the ice more falling off in shards then actually melting. The hands began moving. The legs tried to move but where secured to an egg sac. The creature began moving more now trying to determine where it was and what it was doing. Where were its minions? The first thing it noticed was that it was trapped. It and the egg sac it was attached to were suspended above the floor and chained securely. This caused the creature to roar in rage and it attempted to free itself but to no avail. It tried calling out but felt no xenomorph minds nearby. Then memory began to kick in. This had happened before.

Before it occurred to it what was to come next, it happened. The electrical pulses changed now and they began stimulating other parts. The queen screamed in rage and now pain. They were forcing her to make eggs before she was ready. The queen tugged at the chains and attempted to free herself but could not. She could only roar angrily as the egg sac began to fill.

The Predators after finally completing all ceremony were led to the armouries. Before them were the basic predator gear, net suits, armour, wrist computers energy packs and plasmacaster mounts. When instructed to, the three young hunters began putting on their equipment. Most of it was scrap stuff no one used. Like everything else weapons and equipment had to be earned. Only the wrist computers were brand new. They would be keeping those. First came the net suit. It was designed for all-purpose combat and very tough to cut through. Then the armour. It only covered critical points but hunter didn't need more. The last were the plasmacaster mounts and the energy packs. These also contained the self-destruct device that when activated would release a small nuclear explosion. When this equipment was put on the predators were led to the next section. This contained energy sift devices, which were used to recharge lost energy, and medpacks. It was considered somewhat cowardly to use a medpack during ahunt. But as they were young and going against xenomorphs no one minded much. Then at last came the masks. The predator with the flechette was waiting for this. The other equipment was fascinating to be sure. But it was always the mask that had always drawn him the most. Elegant and practical, the mask served as both oxygen-giver in inhospitable environments and the greatest hunting tool. The mask with its many vision modes was what made the hunt what it was. Without it plasmacasters would be almost useless and the predator would not see its prey as well thus increasing the probability of error. The masks the unblooded were given were hardly state of the art. They were old masks from other predators who had died but left their masks. In other clans the equipment the young predators were given was slightly better than in the Arg'thei. They wanted to make sure their hunters were above all others.

When the three were finished they were led to the weapons. By Arg'thei custom, each one was allowed only three weapons, not including the wristblades or the plasmacasters if they found them. Celtic stepped up first. He chose a netgun, a disk and a side blade. The light predator was up next. He chose a speargun, remote bombs and a side blade. The last predator though carefully then chose a spear and netgun. Before he could pick up his other weapon Celtic interrupted with a loud chatter. The supervising predator turned and pointed at the energy flechette. The energy flechette predator (temporarily known as Predator) started to explain but stopped as he realized what was going on. The blooded predator knew what it was. But due to Celtic's intervention he considered it as one of the two weapons allowed. Predator also understood the subliminal circumstances of the situation. He had made an enemy of Celtic. Predators were forbidden to kill each other except under the most extreme consequences. But he didn't put it past Celtic to "accidentally fail" to watch his back. It might even happen now, in the pyramid. He would be assured of Celtic's cover than mauled to death by a bug from behind. Slowly he stepped back from the table and waited. The elder came into the room gave them the final rites of the hunt then stepped back and watched with interest as the three new hunters put on their masks and connecting their suits. They checked their vision modes and laser sights and stood by each preparing mentally for the hunt. The elder stalked off and shouted a command.

The humans in the circular chamber had been there for more than 5 hours. Chained to the tables they could not do much but stare bleakly at the ceiling. None made a sound save for the woman who had tried to escape who was sobbing quietly. Most of them knew what was coming or at least suspected. And they would've waited there for many more days if they needed to. Prior to entrance they had been well fed and cared for. If any had the will for cynicism they would've said they were being grown like they used to grow pigs for Christmas. But most of them just lived day by day, hardly talking waiting for it to end. It never occurred to them that drugs might be involved. What did it matter? Suddenly a mechanism began moving underneath them. The vibrations could be felt on the tables and it drew chills from even the most vegetative of them, a chill which had nothing to do with the lowered temperature.

At the feet of the tables, something was rising, glistening from what light there was in the place. One human looked up. A small moan escaped from his lips. Directly at his feet, just like at all their feet was a giant egg, its leathery surface almost black in the darkened room. A small light at the other end revealed only a glinting in the egg but one could make out folds at the top…

As the creature gained consciousness the first thing it was aware of was the egg. The egg had protected it for how long, it didn't know. But it had fed whatever needs the creature had very efficiently. It had provided shelter. But now something compelled it to leave the egg, the will of the queen. Its senses were not yet awake yet. Why leave the egg? There was nothing to leave the egg for. It was nice and worm here it would be all right if it stayed here. Then the creature's senses kicked in. It sensed something struggling outside the egg. At that moment a surge ran through the creature making it forget all about the egg. An instinct that could not be pushed away or control. Escape! Survive! Infest! The will of the queen? Gone. There was no queen, there was no desire there was only the host to infest. The facehugger moved its tail slightly. This triggered some enzyme within the membrane of the egg causing it to weaken at the top. The flaps burst open with a wet sound. The facehugger shifted as it attempted to free itself. It could hear screams now. More than one host. Meaningless sounds. It continued to part the membrane and disconnected its tube from the egg. The same tube that had served as an umbilical will now serve to procreate the xenomorph species. The facehugger sensed others like it, each attempting to free itself, each driven with the same blinding instinct to infest. They meant no more to it than the egg it was leaving. Its spider-like eggs were palping the lips of the egg struggling for a grip to pull itself out. Its tail pushed against the egg as it tore off the remaining membrane from its skeletal body. The host was now in sight, its mouth conveniently open as it was making the meaningless sounds. Had the facehugger been more intelligent and less instinct-driven it would've realised the host was powerless. It might've even been arrogant, slowly crawling on the human and settling down on its face. As it was its tail coiled, its legs tensed and it leaped towards the human. It landed on the man's face just as he was gathering his breath for another scream. The tube was in the man's mouth before the facehugger had the chance to secure itself on the man's face. Some last desperate instinct drove the man's jaws together with the speed of a snake. The facehugger squealed as the pain enveloped it. Its tail wrapped around the man's throat and cut off his air. Still the man would not let go. It became a race. Could the man gnaw through the tube before he passed out from the lack of oxygen? He tried but he was failing. The facehugger driven by the maddening instinct and the pain squeezed harder and harder until the pressure finally made the man go unconscious. The facehugger relaxed its grip slightly. The tube was damaged but not destroyed. It began squirting the embryos down the man's throat. As the reproductive material passed out of its body so did its life. The instinct to infest was gone. All senses were swiftly departing. Its grip weakened. A sort of calmness passed over it. Now nothing mattered, not the queen, not the egg. Whatever happened next did not concern it. Thus it stood almost perfectly relaxed except for its grip. It did not feel the impregnating process finish. It didn't know when the tube retracted into its body. It was not even aware of releasing and sliding off the man's face. Darkness…

A technician signalled the three hunters. A hatch opened revealing the bleak darkness of the cave. Here and there, some bioluminescent plants and algae grew but they didn't provide enough light for a human. Light was not an issue with the predators. They set their vision to red, the electromagnetic view which was the best for xenomorphs and bounded outside. None bothered cloaking because xenomorphs could see them anyway. And it would waste energy. There were no humans in the hunt, nor anything else that could be fooled by the cloaking. Silently they broke off in a run towards the pyramid.

The man woke up feeling disoriented. He was hungry, unbelievably hungry. What had happened? How did he get here? The first thing he noticed was the chains that bound him. Trapped! How? He tried to break free but the chains held. The hunters. They had trapped him. He remembered that now. Ok. Damn he was hungry. So where was he? Then he noticed the second thing, which made him struggle in terror. A yellow-spider like creature sat on his chest, feet up looking very dead. Still the human panicked and twisted brutally. The shackles of his chains cut into his wrists drawing blood but he was beyond caring. The thing finally slid off his chest. It hit the ground with a soft thud and didn't move. He stared at it for a few minutes. So hungry. Had it gotten him? Gotten him? How could it get him? Then he remembered what it was. What it did. And he began screaming. This time terror was not the only motive for his actions. He was screaming mostly from the exploding pain that erupted from his chest. He felt it moving now. Felt it biting him. He wanted to reach up and punch his own chest as hard as he could but the chains prevented that. Not that it made much difference. Around him others were waking up. They tried to shout, to say something helpful. But they couldn't think of much. And pretty soon all they could think of was screaming and the pain in the chest. The man's chest heaved. Heaved again. A large bump appeared squirming as if it was alive. During all this he never stopped screaming. His throat was hoarse now but it was small potatoes compared to the excruciating pain in his chest. The skin finally gave way with a splatter and the man had a view of the worm fighting to free itself from his carcass. The man continued screaming although he didn't have much power. It would be over soon. The chestburster turned to face him and hissed at his face. Almost in a mocking gesture. Then it freed itself completely and scurried off. Around the room the same thing was happening but the man didn't notice it anymore. He felt his life going faster that the facehugger had felt it. And for whatever insane reason his last thought was that he still was hungry.

Celtic reached the pyramid first. He stopped at the entrance and waited for his companions. Predator caught up a second later with the last member of the hunting party right behind him. The light predator had been chosen to carry the holo-communicator typically used on blooding hunts. It flicked it on and watched the detailed three-dimensional hologram of the pyramid shimmer into life. It zoomed in first on the queen who continued to make eggs then on the humans in the breeding room. All of them were dead for some time. The light predator turned it off and nodded to the others. They entered the pyramid. As soon as they were all in the hallway the heavy door slammed shut and the walls began shifting. The blooding had begun.

At first, all it wanted to do was hide. Hide, survive, feed and grow. It had fed. Now it wanted to hide to get away from open spaces. Open spaces meant danger! It scuttled around the room. No exit trapped. Wait there was an exit. It swiftly moved into a small hole in the floor and dropped into a small tunnel. Better. Not the greatest but better. Now it could grow. The chestburster squealed as it felt the changes begin. Felt the legs grow, the deadly ripping claws. Felt itself expand many times its size in shocking speed. Felt the tongue grow inside its mouth. It squealed again but it was different this time. Not so cute and tiny anymore. Not as if anything about a chestburster was cute. But now it was downright monstrous. It had grown. It searched for the will of the queen but the queen was busy with the eggs. It didn't have any commands to give. Which left it only one directive. Kill. The xenomorph drooled as it felt the air for prey. It noticed some of its own but it wasn't interested in them. Then something, sensed very faintly, but it was enough. The drone began moving towards the source. The blooding had indeed begun.

Authorial note: Yeah, yeah I know what you're all thinking. "Enough intro, get to the action." It's coming. Chill.

-CrutchCricket


	5. The Attack

Author's note: That's right bitches! I'm back and I'm gonna finish what I started. Review or go to hell. It makes no difference.

Disclaimer: I don't AVP. Any attempt to indicate or induce thought otherwise will result in spontaneous combustion. All your base are belong to us!

The attack came unexpectedly from all sides. Shrill screeching could be heard as the xenomorphs launched themselves off the walls towards the predators. Celtic roared loudly and took out his disc. The weapon whined as it expanded to its full diameter. He threw it at one bug and he disc tore through the alien's chest and imbedded itself in a far wall. Not waiting to see the effectiveness of his attack, Celtic launched towards another, wristblades extended his side blade in another hand. He tackled the xenomorph dead on and drove it into a wall. The alien roared and its deadly tongue darted out. Celtic took the opportunity to shove his fist down the creature's throat. Simultaneously he slashed across the throat with his side blade and severed the head. Predator stepped nimbly aside as a xenomorph launched towards him, spear at the ready. The alien turned around blindingly fast but the spear was already swinging towards its head. The creature's tail snapped forward deflecting the spear at the last moment. Predator growled and stabbed forward. The alien again deflected the jab with a claw and lunged forwards, tongue flying.

Predator dropped the spear and grabbed the alien's tongue in midair.

The thing's tail flailed and launched its tail towards him, but Predator threw his weight backwards and slammed the alien to the ground. His right hand came down hard, wristblades extended and sliced right through the tongue. The xenomorph screeched in rage and pain. The tail flailed once more and this time hit its target. It stabbed Predator in the back but due to its awkward position did not break through the other side. Predator rose to his feet, grabbed the alien by a claw and hurled him against the wall, ignoring the pain of the creature's tail ripping his back. He reached for his belt and pulled out the netgun. Before the alien could come to its senses, Predator's net engulfed it.

Beside him the light predator fired at an alien on the wall. The first shot pinned the creature's tail to the wall. The second buried itself in the head, slightly above the neck. The third stapled the xenomorph's toothed tongue to the wall. The thing screeched as it struggled to get free. Acid blood began melting holes in the wall a distinct hissing sound could be heard as it dripped freely. The pinned alien finally broke away from the wall and pounced on the light predator. The light predator fired a tri-shot into the creature's chest but the momentum carried it forward anyway. It slammed into him knocking him back and causing him to drop his spear gun. The acid blood from the chest wound spilt on the light predator causing him to scream in pain and surprise. Clenching his fist, he drove it on the side of the alien's head, the wristblades piercing almost to the other side. The alien weakly tried to claw at his mask but it was fading fast. It finally collapsed on him, bleeding from the wounds he had inflicted. The light predator roared again as he shoved the corpse off him.

Further away he heard Predator pick up his spear and stab the netted alien. But now the bug's screams were undermined by a deep rumbling and he felt motion. He rose to his knees and picked up the spear gun. The pain in his chest was unbelievable. He roared but he was growing weaker. A bit further away Predator heard the cry and realized his comrade was injured. He rushed towards him but it was too late. The floor gave out underneath the light predator and he fell from sight. A second later a wall closed inches from Predator's face. He struck the wall with his wristblades in frustration. He turned back but Celtic was gone as well. The disc was gone from the wall which meant Celtic had the time to call it to him. But where had he gone? Suddenly Predator was alone in darkened corridors of the pyramid with only the corpses of the bugs for company.

He quickly counted the corpses, trying to determine how many aliens they had killed. Celtic had killed two, he'd killed one and the light predator had also killed one. There were 10 hosts if he remembered correctly so that left six full-grown bugs. But the clan had probably not refrozen the queen yet, which meant they would have facehuggers to worry about. No facehugger could hope to sneak up on the three of them, but alone they were much more vulnerable. He hadn't said anything in the beginning for fear of sounding cowardly, but he hoped the others would have the sense to realize it and stick together. But now Celtic had apparently gone off on his own, the light predator was injured and somewhere below him and he was left alone, which made finding the plasmacasters all the more important. Predator suddenly realized he was still holding the tongue of the alien he had killed. He would keep it as a trophy; the kill had been quite good, even by a blooded predator's standards. In a real hunt he would take the head, but this wasn't a real hunt. Lugging around a whole xenomorph cranial case seemed impractical anyway. He glanced down at the body of the xenomorph he killed and stopped cold. By ritual he was supposed to mark himself with the blood of his first kill. This would leave him blind and vulnerable in this maze of shifting hallways and anything could happen.

He slowed his breath and closed his eyes focusing all his attention on sound. He disconnected the hissing breather tubes at the back of the mask and with them the power cord. The mask went dark and Predator once again hesitated. But hearing nothing he removed the mask completely and opened his eyes. His natural vision was useless in this light, but he could make out the xenomorph body in front of him. Carefully he ripped off a finger and lifted it to his forehead, making sure it didn't drip on him. He applied it to his head, methodically burning the clan's mark into his forehead. He couldn't resist a low growl that threatened to turn into a roar. But he removed the digit and threw it down and slowly the pain subsided. As soon as the ritual was completed, Predator instantly felt better. He was now blooded. The pride of that thought made his chest swell and he finally roared though not out of pain. He began putting his mask on when he heard an ominous sound. He wheeled and came face to face with a xenomorph. The creature pounced on him with an angry hiss, making him drop his mask. He roared in surprise then pain as the bug drove its claws in his chest.

The light predator awoke to a world of pain. Everything burnt; he felt disoriented and could not make sense of what his mask was showing him. He shook his head and sat upright, the movement causing a new wave of pain to travel through his body. He had been separated from the others, that much he could tell. As for his exact location… who knew? The pyramid was a maze of shifting hallways and dark corridors. Each place looked the same. He could spend hours looking for a place, arrive within 6 feet of it and never know the difference.

The spear gun was lying at his side and the remote bombs were still clipped to his net suit. Which seemed somewhat amazing since his suit was ripped to shreds. He hastily got the med kit out and opened it. In the strange blue light that emanated from the object he activated a burner and mixed several chemicals with a blue liquid. When these were mixed and heated, he selected twin syringes and primed them with the medicine. The predator equivalent of adrenaline had to be injected in the chest to take its full effect. Once in the bloodstream it did more than provide extra energy. It catalyzed the body's natural reactions and speed up the immune system, thus quickening the healing and expulsion of infectants. He would still have to field dress his torn chest wounds but this would give him the boost he needed to patch himself up and continue the hunt. He hesitated for a second, syringes held above him. The "syringes" were actual blades with a hollow hilt and substance delivery system based on an ancient venomous creature on the predator homeworld. Actually they were something that would make a human run yelling and screaming at the thought of jabbing them in their chest, but the light predator waited only a second more before driving them in with all his might. He screamed and twitched with all his might for several seconds, as the medicine spread throughout his body. He knew that not even the most hardened predators could withstand the pain with no sound but he still felt angry at himself for potentially alerting his foes. It didn't matter though, he thought grimly. If that didn't get their attention, this next part will.

His mind already clearer, his strength somewhat restored, he pulled out the syringes and climbed to his feet. His entire chest was a soggy green mess with blue speckles here and there. He needed to wash the blood away but there was nothing to do that with. He had neither cloth nor water to clean himself. So he simply picked up the med kit and began studying his surroundings. He was in a circular room with pillars forming a ring inside the room. Ancient carvings, depicting battles was on each pillar, but the light predator hardly had the time to appreciate them. He backed to a wall and focused on the pillar furthest from him. He would be able to make a paste to cover his many scars and neutralize the acid that remained in them. But for that he needed some substance in which the chemical reactions could occur. The walls of the pyramid were far too deep for his unsuitable equipment to penetrate. A two-foot thick pillar was something else all together.

He pulled out a remote bomb. It whined in his hands as it shifted in the ready position. The bombs were little discs with metallic "wings" on the sides. They could stick to almost any surface or bounce around depending on how the owner threw it. A built in time limit exploded the bomb after a few minutes in case the predator was somehow unable to activate it himself. He hesitated, calculating the risks; decided he had no other choice and threw it. The bombs metallic edges stuck in the stone easily enough. The light predator crouched behind the closest pillar, making himself as small as possible and pressed the button on his wrist computer. A deafening boom could be heard as the pillar shattered, sending rocks flying everywhere and engulfing the room with dust.


	6. The Survival

Disclaimer: Abraham Lincoln once said: "It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt." So if you think I own AVP at least have the sense of self-preservation to STFU. Tool.

Predator was most surprised by the tactical stealth and strategy the alien had employed. It had waited for him to take his mask off and proceed with the ritual blooding. Even then when he was in mid-roar instead of throwing itself at him snarling, it crept up until the unwary prey had no time to draw his weapons. The calculated way it performed these actions reminded Predator of his own hunting techniques and he was stunned to find they were not all that different. The xenomorphs were far from mindless killing machines. They were _smart, effective _killing machines. Previously he had thought the only challenge the aliens provided was their speed and huge array of natural weapons. Now it seems he would have to take their intellect into consideration as well. The thought briefly gave him pause but the sight of a screeching, drooling bug on top of him was enough to snap him out of his momentary awe.

Roaring, he lifted one foot into the alien's chest and kicked away. The force was enough get the alien off him but not nearly enough to even stun it. Hissing it pounced again. Relying solely on instinct, Predator threw himself to the side, rolled and came up in a defensive stance, spear extended and at the ready. But even as he mentally applauded himself for the way he had performed the maneuver, he knew he was at a serious disadvantage. The corridor had no lighting save a dim glow that seemed to emanate inexplicably from the atmosphere itself. His natural vision was inadequate for such a hunt and in nearly zero light was almost useless. His sense of smell was not overly developed, and his hearing although good was not enough for the fight that lay ahead. He was wounded and most of his weapons could be knocked away in an instant if he was careless. On the other hand the xenomorph _was_ a weapon, had lightning fast reflexes that even a yautja could not always match, and could see him as plainly as if he hung himself with glowlights.

He tried to pinpoint the creature's location by its snarls but he could only guess where it was. It was on the move. Behind him. Beside him. It was playing with him, he realized with a shock. He struck out with his spear and hit nothing. A sudden gush of wind. To his left. He swept the spear in a broad arc and was rewarded with the sound of it smacking the alien away. With a shrill screech it launched himself at him. But he knew where it was now. He sidestepped and flicked the tip of the spear and was once again successful. The spear slashed the bug's body, drawing blood and infuriating the creature even more. Predator knew he could not play this matador game for long. Abandoning the spear, he reached for his netgun and roared out a challenge. His strategy was all about timing. Shoot too soon and the alien would dodge and come at him another way. Shoot too late…

Predator braced himself but once again underestimated the resourcefulness of the alien. With a snarl, it pounced straight up and dropped on top of him. The whole move had taken maybe a second or two and the newly blooded yautja once again found himself knocked down with a roaring xenomorph on top of him. The thing's tail slashed diagonally across his face and only the sunken complexion of his face saved his eyes from being ripped out from his face. It slashed again, the other way, across flesh, bone and mandible and the predator roared his anguish as loud as he ever had.

His next action was not entirely conscious and not entirely battle instinct. It was mostly a last act of desperation. He jabbed the netgun in the bug's chest and squeezed the trigger. The netgun was a medium size weapon made mostly to ensnare prey in order for the hunter to finish it off at his leisure. Only in the last few centuries had the weapon been made lethal with the razor wire and spike motors. In any case it was designed as a decent medium range weapon but did not launch with the same precision and power as a speargun. In close quarters the effect was instantaneous. The spikes of the net were driven through the alien's chest and the net itself exploded out the back of the xenomorph expanding to its full size and dripping with acid blood. Predator managed to roll away as the dead alien slammed down beside him. He quickly dropped the melting netgun and roared with pain as the separation also ripped off parts of his skin. Sitting against a wall, he inspected himself. His left hand was raw and almost useless. Every twitch brought fresh waves of pain. His face was deeply slashed and the blood was beginning to seep into his eyes. He wiped it away with his other hand, vainly trying to control his pain. A lesser creature would've undoubtedly lost consciousness, but Predator managed to pull out his medkit and open it. After a brief injection with the strange adrenaline solution, he lay back and let it take effect for a minute.

The net had hit a wall and stuck there, and the acid blood had melted a hole in the wall. Predator staggered over to it and pulled out his wristblades. He jabbed at it for several minutes and finally managed to collect enough acid-free rubble for the sealing mixture. He brought a tiny makeshift bowl and placed the rubble in that. Next he placed that over the medkit burner and waited for it to heat. He proceeded to add a blue mixture in the bowl and stirred with one of the syringes, then let the reactions take place. Under the light of the burner he spotted his spear and shuffled quickly towards it and picked it up. Retracting and clipping it to his belt he proceeded to look for his mask. The mixture had just turned into a paste when Predator heard the deep rumbling that signified the change in the pyramid corridors. Rushing, he reached his medkit grabbed the bowl and made for the mask. It lay about ten feet from him, gleaming duly in the dim light. A wall was coming down in front of him moving at a surprising speed. If he didn't hurry he'd be cut off from his mask. Scooping mixture from the bowl, he slapped it across his chest freely, crawling now, doing everything in his power. He stuck his left hand in the mixture and for the first time unconsciousness threatened to overtake him. The pain was overwhelming and made him stop and chuck the bowl away. _I must reach my mask_, he thought silently. _I must!_

The wounded yautja's crawl might not have been graceful but it was somewhat effective. Predator managed to squeeze underneath the descending wall and as the heavy mass slammed down, he pulled his legs out and lay there for a few seconds. Once the pain had decreased enough for him to think clearly, he re-evaluated his condition. He had lost his medkit and healing mixture. He had also lost the small light from the burner and was thus once again plunged into darkness. On the positive side, he had managed to administer some of the goup to his wounds. But more importantly he had recovered his mask. This pleased him greatly. He would complete the hunt and return to his ship a full hunter with stories of his fights. They would not be as great as seasoned hunters perhaps. But they would be his.

He took the time now to spread the mix more evenly among his scars. It wasn't nearly enough for a complete heal, but it stopped the bleeding. His left hand felt more like a hand now and less like a useless bundle of pain nerves. Once that was done he rose a bit unsteadily to his feet and picked up his mask. He was about to put it on when a small shape came flying out of the darkness towards his face. Predator instinctively raised the mask to his face, even though his intellect wondered what the point of that was. The thing hit the mask and wrapped its spider-like limbs around it.

_A facehugger_, Predator thought with a slight pang of fear. Dying on a hunt was one thing. Every warrior was proud to be able to die an honorable death. But being infected then torn from the inside was something no warrior ever hoped to experience. Plus the thought of aiding the bugs with hosts brought a wave of revulsion into every yautja warrior. There were some who even opposed using humans as hosts for the blooding pyramids. There was something indescribably twisted about the parasitic stage of the xenomorphs that placed them as the lowest life forms to the predators. The hunter's code was clear. Hunt with honor and always attempt to even the fight. Never kill an unharmed opponent and spare crippled prey or pregnant females. The bugs were not prey, but a scourge to be destroyed. They were a foe to be respected, but also to be eliminated on sight. Because, of course, the aliens would return the favor if they could.

Predator dropped the mask with the facehugger still on it. It was still attached to it, vainly trying to insert its impregnating appendage into a non-existent cavity. But as with the drone, the creature was by no means stupid. It realized something was wrong and detached from the mask. Sensing the predator nearby it acted on its primary instinct and rushed towards him.

Predator knew he only had once chance to survive. He waited for its pounce then miraculously ducked just before the thing hit his face. The facehugger's momentum carried it far past his head and somewhere in the gloom. It landed nimbly and instantly turned to try again. Predator had backed away to a wall. As the thing ran forward, he pressed the button on his right wrist and the twin barrels of the energy flechette sprang to life. He fired immediately, taking no chances. The facehugger ran then sensing the danger sidestepped to avoid the blast. It never lost speed, Predator noticed. This was bad. He continued firing and every time the little creature dodged the shots with apparent ease.

The facehugger leapt up towards his face once more. Desperation and instinct once again saved the newly blooded hunter. He dodged to the right and the thing's tail just grazed his face. This time the facehugger did not overshoot and land far away enough for the yautja to regroup himself. Instead it hit the wall, stuck there and prepared to pounce again. Under the circumstances, Predator did the only thing he could. He brought his left arm down on the facehugger with all his might. Under different circumstances the act would have seemed comical, a blooded predator chopping a facehugger. He kept his forearm pinning it as its tail flailed around trying to get purchase. This would not last. Even now the facehugger's surprisingly strong spider legs were pushing up out and down, trying to free itself. Predator quickly grabbed its tail and threw it away. Its tail tried to wrap around his hand but the motion had been too quick. As before it landed away from him on its arachnid limbs. This time Predator was taking no chances. He trained the energy flechette on the thing and started firing. Sensing the change, the facehugger tried to leap in the air to confuse its enemy. But the hunter had learned. He adjusted for the pounce and the shots caught the thing in midair. It landed five feet away with half its limbs singed off. Acid blood dripping freely, it tried to crawl towards him, forever driven by that maddening instinct to infest. But now the hunter was taking his time. He aimed and shot most of its other legs off. He watched with cold detachment as the thing, even now, tried to crawl towards him, and then fired the final shots that burned away most of its body with only the tail remaining.

After the fight, Predator walked over to his mask and put it on. Breathing once again from the mask's filter and seeing his surroundings clearly under its various vision modes made him feel exceptionally well. He could finally fully appreciate his accomplishments. He had fought a xenomorph drone _and_ a facehugger, wounded with no mask and using outdated weapons in one case. The elders would be proud. He would make a great Arg'thei warrior and someday who knows? After enough prey has been killed he might be a High Elder. His thoughts of grandeur were somehow disrupted by his energy readings. Nearly a third of his energy pack was depleted. He knew the flechette consumed energy quickly but was still shocked at the levels. This meant that not only might the weapon be inefficient in battle, but that he had panicked and fired off too many shots. Although no one would chide him for that when against a facehugger with no mask, he still had much to learn. Still it had done exactly what he said it would. He retracted his weapon and picked up the now cauterized tail of the facehugger. Facehugger limbs were not considered trophies usually, but he believed his fight had been unique and thus deserved some memento. Sticking it in his suit, he thought about his next move. His main goal would be to find the plasmacasters. Celtic couldn't be trusted and if the light predator was not already dead, he'd pulled through. A while earlier he had heard an explosion somewhere to the southeast that sounded suspiciously like a remote bomb. He might have healed himself as Predator had done. Making sure his remaining gear was in order, and his vision mode was set to aliens, he took off on a light jog down a hallway.

The light predator finished dressing his wounds and began checking his gear. He had three bombs left and two whole clips of spears. His net suit was all but burnt off and his energy pack and plasmacaster mount was threatening to slide off his back and shoulders. His mask was working fine. He was repacking his medkit when the shifting began. Rumbling walls opened, closed and shifted as the pyramid's inside reconfigured. He picked up his weapons and the medkit and walked down a tunnel until he came upon entrance to another chamber. Setting his load down, he took out his wristblades and started cutting away some netsuit strands from his legs. When he finished cutting just enough, he started to resplice the strands into fairly strong pieces of wire that could be used to brace his torn upper half. Tying the required knots took only a few more minutes and the job was done. The suit would hold for normal movements but in close combat, he was not so sure. Reclipipng his equipment, the light predator once again took off in a light jog. The plasmacasters were the main priority if he wanted to survive. However, he hoped to find a comrade along the way as well. Soon he realized he didn't recognize this part of the pyramid. He slowed his pace and advanced more cautiously.

Celtic had been running for some time through the omnious labyrinth that was the pyramid. When the pyramid started shifting, he had recalled his disc and ran down a side opening in a wall. He had no qualms about leaving his fellow hunters behind. A hunter should be able to survive alone in nearly any situation. Besides the light predator had taken substantial damage and probably wouldn't make it and the other could take care of himself. What, with that melon-shooter of his. The thought brought a fresh source of anger in Celtic's mind. Who was he to disgrace him like that? If they both survived he would be sure to arrange a duel with that one. He had no doubts he could beat him. He had spent countless hours in training while the melon shooter had tinkered with his toys.

Yes, he would beat him and his disgrace would be inevitable. But now he needed to focus on the task at hand. Celtic stopped to asses his surroundings. Acccording to the holo-maps, he wasn't far from the plasmacasters. A few more feet, and a left turn and he should be at... a blank wall. He muttered a curse and hit the wall absently. He had enjoyed the fight with the xenomorphs but even so, he wished this mission was over. He wanted to return to the ship and claim the glory that was his right. There would be other times to figth the bugs, of that he was sure.

But so far they hadn't proven much of a challenge. Perhaps the freezing process had interfered with the queen and as a result the offspring were inferior to those found elsewhere. The more Celtic walked through this ever-changing pyramid, the more it felt like a chore, a dreaded task he had to complete quickly or go mad from boredom. The thrill of battle had long worn off and he was eager for more. Where were those damn shoulder cannons? If he had one he could finish the bugs off much faster. The elders would detect the required number of aliens were killed and would shut this place down. He would return to the ship, admired and praised by all as the one with the most kills, while the others if they made it would shuffle behind, unable get out of his shadow.

His thoughts returned to the holo-map and he decided on an alternate route. He followed a winding hallway, turned right then left and came up to another wall. This time the curse was hardly muttered and the hit the wall recieved was anything but absent. He was about to try a third route when a deep rumbling started that seemed to come from everywhere. Slowly the wall in front of him slid away and he was able to walk inside the chamber. For a few moments he was scared that this was not the right chamber, or that the elders had moved the plasmacasters at the last minute. But he needn't have worried because the familiar locked sarcophagus was right there in the center of the room. And perched on top of it was a waiting, hissing xenomorph.


	7. The Aquittal

Disclaimers for Dummies: People who use disclaimers usually want to indicate that the entity for which the disclaimer is used is not their property in any way. Concepts like AVP are such entities.

Identifying Morons for Dummies: You can safely assume that people who believe the author of this story owns the AVP franchise even after reading several disclaimers (one in every chapter) are morons, completely devoid of any but the most basic brain power that is required to sustain their useless carbon-based existence.

_He ran through the dark pyramid, fleeing from horrors he never believed he would encounter. His pulse pounding and his head bursting with pain, he ran. In front of him was another form and it too, was running. He didn't feel threatened by this form. Indeed he believed it to be his ally. Occasionally the form would turn back and yell something, perhaps encouraging him, spurring him on. Or maybe it was annoyed that he was slowing it down. In any case he could not make out any distinct words but could feel the urgency in the voice. Vainly he tried to run faster to catch up with it, but as they ran through corridor after corridor he could feel the exertion resisting him. More than what he considered normal, for his very legs seemed to refuse to obey, their movements sluggish and jelly-like. Fearfully, he called after the form, asking it to stop, to help him but by now it was out of his sight and his voice sounded weak and insignificant. He heard roars and screeches behind him and drawing closer. He struggled to catch up with the form in front of him as he burst into a large chamber. He could see the form running up the stairs. Calling out again he sped after it. As he climbed the steps he felt his chest being constricted, his very air cut off. Still he ran up the stairs even as violent coughs tore out of his throat and caused him to stumble. But as he reached for his puffer, the demon was upon him. _

_Its metallic face gazed on him, emotionless and unimpressed. It shook him then dropped him and started after the form. Behind him more screeching could be heard coming louder now, nearer and far more frightening. He had to help the form he realized. Sweat was running down his face and his heart was beating so fast it seemed a miracle to him that it had not yet exploded from his chest. Though fright threatened to freeze him to the spot he reached for the Stick. He knew the Stick lit and light would fight off the demon. Using his puffer he blew the light to the demon._

_The demon once again picked him up and with the light encompassing them both, he saw a visage straight from hell. Broad forehead and metallic dreadlocks, its eyes fiery red, its mouth no longer smooth metal but snarling, gnashing mandibles. He felt the demon reach inside him and tear his very soul from his body. And as he screamed and screamed he once again felt his voice was insignificant in the pyramid of screeches and howls of serpents and demons. The pain wracked his whole body as the claws ripped and tore and-_

Raymond Weyland awoke with a scream inside his dark office. It took him several moments to convince himself that he was indeed safe inside his luxurious office with his scotch cabinet and large fireplace, with portraits of his predecessors and the Yutanis of the past looking sternly down on him. He must have fallen asleep and dreamt it all. It had certainly felt more real than any of his previous dreams. He looked on his desk at the stacks of papers Van Grey had given him, now an untidy mess across the large oak surface. Despite the anxiety Van Grey had produced about that third species in his office there was little mention of that in the document. Mostly in went on and on listing problems with the LV1201 facilities such as site location, network bugs and other technical problems, problems with the help. The list was far more extensive than what Weyland's experts had compiled. No doubt trying to make things look good for the boss and hopefully keep their jobs.

The section on the third species however small was detailed enough. As Van Grey had stated various official reports were included from the Army, the FBI and the LAPD. Other accounts from less prominent sources were also present. One image caught his eye and slowly he recovered it from the pile. He found himself looking at an artists rendering of the extraterrestrial based on the cop's description. Shivers ran up his spine that had nothing to do with temperature. The mandibles. The dreadlocks. The claws. The eyes with their intelligent but hellish gaze. Weyland felt his blood go cold as he stared at the creature that had murdered his ancestor and now invaded his dreams.

Arthur the assistant came promptly at 6 am as per his boss's instructions. Over the course of the trial he had watched his superior slowly deteriorate from a careless billionaire to nervous wreck as fewer and fewer options were left to him. He hadn't succumbed to alcoholism but would probably do so sooner or later. In a way he enjoyed seeing the higher ups fall from their glory and was almost amused at the shock when they realized that their vast sums of money were useless when enough people wanted to see them hang. But not being cruel or perverse, this satisfaction came only on a matter of principle, a theoretical detached point of view. On a more personal level he genuinely felt sorry for his employer and hoped something of his reputation and his life's work would survive.

He knocked politely and waited for the response before opening the heavy wood door leading to the office and stepping inside. He saw how Weyland took comfort in 20th century type of offices and he approved. The fireplace and the large portraits were his personal touches each demonstrating his wealth and legacy respectively. In sharp contrast to the grandness of the office, the owner was a wreck. Dark circles had formed around his eyes which had a haunted and troubled look. His dark hair, usually very neat was a wavy mess that just sat on the top of his head, the sides slick with sweat. His shirt was creased and looked like it had been worn for a week. Weyland's unshaven face just stared for a minute before breaking a weak smile. "Hello, Arthur. What time is it?"

"It's 6:03 sir. You told me to alert you when it was 6:00. I called your house but Mrs. Broker said you were not there. So I came here," Arthur replied.

"Ah so I did. Well thank you Arthur," Weyland said. He began gathering the mass of papers.

"Um, sir? I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you but have you been here the whole time? You look like you need more sleep," Arthur said.

"What..? Oh yes, I've been working. Trial or no trial I still have a company to run. Still that couch over there did its job so I wouldn't worry too much," Weyland said.

Turning slightly, Arthur could immediately see the couch had been unused. Once again he felt sorry for what his boss was going through and tried to help. "Mr. Weyland, your lawyers called and said they would like to meet with you before 1. I believe they said they'll be at the usual place on Canyon and Forsyte around 10."

"Thank you. That will be all Arthur. Have the limo here by 9:30. Oh and bring me a shirt. And some aftershave."

Arthur nodded and turned for the door. Billionaires, he thought. Even when faced with a crisis, they still acted like they owned everything. He was about to leave when he turned again. "Oh I almost forgot. There was another message for you, sir." He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Weyland. Weyland unfolded it and stared at it for several seconds while his face turned noticeably paler.

"Thank you Arthur," he managed to say before waving him off. Knowing not to press him at a time like this Arthur walked quickly out of the office.

Weyland looked at the message again and again as if it would disappear under his gaze. Written neatly in blocked letters, the message read:

Your defense lawyers have failed. Dismiss them and a more efficient counsel will present himself, one who can deal with our information. After your acquittal, I expect we'll meet within a couple of days to discuss the site plans.

Van Grey

The paper itself was simple enough, the kind of note paper a secretary might have lying around, the only distinguishing feature was the CRS logo stamped firmly center bottom. Weyland stared at that logo for the longest time, and then averted his eyes back to the writing. What was Van Grey up to? He was meeting his lawyers at ten. They must have something for him. How could Van Grey know what they had? Was it insufficient? Was this a bluff? Could he actually want to see him hang? His tired mind was going in circles, offering him a variety of answers, none of which seemed to be the right ones. He glanced back down at the messy stacks of papers the man had given him. He realized he knew nothing about Van Grey. He knew what he looked like, about 5'10 with jet-black hair kept in no particular style just groomed back, a thin mustache and anchor beard and piercing grey eyes. That told him nothing about the man who claimed to want to help him stay out of prison.

Weyland tried to bring back the memory of his first meeting with Van Grey at his office, to see if he could remember anything else about the man. He remembered the empty building that wasn't quite finished, with the security guard who eyed him as he walked in. He remembered the CRS floor, also incomplete with its marble floors and the monotone receptionist at the heavy metallic desk. He remembered Van Grey's office, empty as well save the desk chairs and the picture of the clown on the wall. No distinguishing features at all. No plaques no pictures of company events, nothing. Companies, he realized. Van Grey had given him a list of other corporations he had done business with. Some of those names he remembered, particularly the ones he knew, like MicroSyn, Umbrella and OCP (the bastards had hacked his computers a while ago, but he never knew what they were looking for). He decided to call MicroSyn first.

"MicroSyn, Mr. Gates' office," came a cheery voice over the phone.

"Yes, this is Raymond Weyland. Is he in?" Weyland asked.

"One moment please," The next thing Weyland heard was the soft lobby type music which meant he was on hold.

"Bob Gates here," he heard at last.

"Bob, it's me Raymond from Weyland-Yutani. I was wondering if you had a minute," Weyland said.

"Sure, sure. Hey I heard what happened to you. Terrible. I don't know what the courts are up to but you couldn't have known," Gates replied.

"Thanks. Listen did you ever do business with a man named Van Grey? Jason Van Grey?" Weyland asked.

"Oh yes. I remember him. CRS I think it was. Can't remember what it stood for worth a damn. But that man knows his stuff," Gates answered.

"What was it about if you don't mind me asking?" Weyland pressed.

"I was having some troubles with the company. Nothing major just little things here and there with the board, in lower management. He straightened it out for me. Come to think of it, he totally changed it around." Gates said thoughtfully.

"Yes but what did he do? What does he do?"

"He's approached you?" Gates asked

"Yes… yes he made me a proposition." Weyland fidgeted uncomfortably.

"Ah. You don't need to worry about a thing. He takes care of everything. You accepted of course?"

"Well, yes," Weyland replied.

"Excellent. Your whole life just took a turn for the better. Give him whatever he asks he's always fair about his fees. Trust me, from one entrepreneur to another, this man will straighten you out."

"But what does he do?" Weyland asked impatiently.

"No bullshit?" Gates said.

"No," Weyland replied.

"He's an enlightment. He'll take every aspect of your life and make it complete. He provides what is lacking."

"What if nothing is lacking?" A long pause followed.

"If that's what you think you're playing the wrong game." Gates answered mysteriously.

"Look just give me a straight answer," Weyland said irritated now.

"You want to know what this is? What it's all about?" Gates asked.

"It would be a big help," Weyland replied.

"John, chapter nine, verse twenty-six,"

"I, uh... haven't been to Sunday school in years..."

"'Whereas once I was blind, now I can see.' Look I'd love to chat but I got a meeting with the heads of the departments in 5 minutes and I gotta get ready. It was nice talking to you, Raymond. Goodbye and good luck." And with that Gates hung up. Weyland stood still for the longest time before replacing the receiver. His head reeling he called Umbrella, but none of their execs were available. OCP was the same. He put the phone down and slumped suddenly exhausted.

Gates was just about to leave his office for the meeting when the phone rang again. He picked up "Yes," he said somewhat impatiently.

"Did Weyland call?" the voice on the other end asked.

"Yes, he did," Gates replied all trace of his former annoyance gone. "He asked exactly what you said he would."

"And your answer,"

"Exactly what you told me to say."

"Excellent. Thank you. Good luck at your meeting," the voice said before Gates could reply. He paused for a moment then put down the phone and left the office.

"Sir your limousine has arrived," Arthur announced at promptly at 9:30. This time Weyland was glad for the interruption. He had tried calling some of the smaller companies but many of them were unavailable and those who he did manage to talk to provided no new information. They hadn't been as mysterious as Gates had been, simply saying they had no knowledge of CRS but their superiors might know. He had never managed to get a hold of these superiors and after a while he had just given up. He had tried to find clues online as well and the numerous search results gave him some hope. On closer inspection however most of them turned out to be useless and completely unrelated. He found sites for Conrad Renovation Service, Custom Room Storage, and a bookstore called Classics Renaissance Stories. After about the third or fourth page, the results didn't even include the acronym save for a porn site named Crazy Rippn Disappointed he turned off his computer and gathered his files. He changed into the fresh clothes Arthur had brought for him and shaved in his private office bathroom. He came out looking fresh and almost normal except for the tired, almost haunted look in his eyes.

The limousine pulled up to the Kensington Hotel ay 9:59. Raymond Weyland got out and walked towards the entrance, looking normal if not a little tired. The doorman opened the door at once and Weyland strode to the front desk. The concierge spotted him at once.

"Mr. Weyland, welcome. How can I be of service today?"

"I'm meeting some men in the dining room. They are supposed to arrive… well now," Weyland said, consulting his watch

"Yes sir they have already arrived. Table forty. This way sir," the concierge guided him through the lounge towards the dining room. Seeing his lawyers already seated, Weyland dismissed the concierge and walked over to join them. He shook hands and sat down.

"So what do you have for me?" Weyland asked

"Well sir, as of now we have no safety net. They're not cutting us any slack on this one. If the jury convicts you are potentially liable to the full extent of the law," the head lawyer said. Weyland had feared this and now it was confirmed.

"What about the information I sent you?" Weyland asked. The lawyers looked uncomfortable and one of them even excused himself.

"Mr. Weyland I'm not sure how to tell you this. But the information you sent us is trivial at best. I don't understand where you want to take this but in all my years as defense counsel I've never seen anyone pull something like this off."

Weyland just stared at him with a look that made the man even more uncomfortable. This look wasn't just that of a tired, desperate man. It was of a haunted desperate man, one who had seen death itself and can only wait for the moment bleakly. Hesitantly he continued.

"The evidence stage was concluded last Wednesday. Even if the judge allows it, we're not likely to get any support with this stuff. That jury wants to see you hang. They're not going to be put off with some fictional aliens or farfetched math theories," Seeing no change on Weyland's face, he decided to press one more point. "I took the liberty of checking out some of these sources. Personal accounts were easy to come across, although I had to call some favors for the Army stuff. I found no records of these "predators". Not in the Army, not in the FBI not in rival corporations. Mr. Weyland I don't know where you got this information but it _doesn't exist in the database_." No reaction. The lawyer decided the hell with it and finished his argument.

"Sir, I deem this course or action inadmissible in your best interests. I advise to plead guilty and I can try to reduce the sentence," the lawyer concluded. Weyland finally reacted. His eyes grew wide and his mouth tightened to a fine line. The anger on his face was evident. The haunted look was long gone and when he spoke he did so loudly enough to turn some heads.

"Guilty? I pay each of you a fortune that would make any honest man cringe and this is the best you could come up with! Plead guilty for Christ's sake! I could've gotten my fucking housekeeper to tell me that!"

"Mr. Weyland calm down please. If you consider…" another lawyer began. He had the disadvantage of looking young.

"Calm down! Calm down! You little shit I built my company up from nothing while you were still sucking your mother's tit! Now I stand to lose it all. I stuffed you pockets bigger than an elephant's turd pile and you tell me to plead _guilty_?" Weyland roared, not caring anymore how many heads turned. "Leeches! You're all a bunch of bloodsucking leeches! You're dismissed. Off the case! I don't want to see any of you dirtbags again!" and with that he stormed out of there, leaving the remaining lawyers in a state of shock.

Once outside, he had time to calm down a bit. He hadn't believed he had such a speech in him. He didn't think he could've taken it so badly. There must've been two dozen people in that restaurant. Most of them knew him, even if just from the television. Twenty-four people who knew Raymond Weyland had no plan and now had no lawyers. They knew he was going down. And they would talk, telling their friends and those people telling their friends. By 1:00 the whole damn city would know. He knew he was exaggerating but he couldn't help himself. He walked a little further from the exit and stopped to think. Then he remembered the note Van Grey had sent him. His lawyers had failed. But how could Van Grey know? How could he possibly know what the lawyers would do? Did he watch them? No there was no reason to. Did he somehow cause them to fail? No that was even more ridiculous. Coincidence and yet…

Before he was fully aware of it, he had already walked back to his limo. Once inside, he grabbed the phone and called his office. His assistant picked up on the third ring.

"Arthur. I want you to find the number for a company called CRS. Check my records. If not check the yellow pages. Give it to me as soon as possible," Weyland said and hung up after hearing the confirmation. The call came only a minute later.

"Sir here it is. It was right on your desk," Arthur said.

"Fine give it to me," Weyland replied. He heard the 7 digits and scribbled them on a notepad. Then he hung up and called the number.

"CRS, how may I help you," a female voice came over the phone.

"Yes, I'm Raymond Weyland. I'm looking for Mr. Van Grey please," Weyland said.

"Mr. Weyland? Please hold," the voice said and before he could reply her voice was gone, replaced by some radio song singing about the space blues. He clenched his fist but relaxed it slowly. He had no time for holding.

"Mr. Weyland? Still there?" the woman was back.

"Yes I am. Can I speak to Mr. Van Grey now?" Weyland asked impatiently.

"Just a moment sir. I'm afraid I have some bad news," the voice said.

"Bad news? What…" Weyland started but before he could finish the voice overrode him.

"We've finished processing your application. I'm afraid it was rejected. There were compatibility issues…"

"What? What application?" Weyland asked but the voice kept talking.

"… you shouldn't feel this reflects negatively on you. Have a nice day and thank you for choosing CRS," and with that, the voice hung up before Weyland could sputter another word. Furiously, he tried calling again but only got the busy signal. He slammed the phone down in anger and leaned back his head reeling.

What game was Van Grey playing? For no reason at all he thought back to the meeting. There had been a female receptionist. _Your application was rejected._ He had the woman say that when he had walked in. _You shouldn't feel this reflects negatively on you_. All cool, all monotone as if it was normal routine, Weyland thought in shock. _It's a goddamn rehearsed speech_. But why? What game was Van Grey playing? And why was he playing it with him? He would've been asking himself questions for a long time, but the limo suddenly jerked forward and pulled over.

"What's going on?" Weyland shouted at the driver.

"Engine problems sir. The damn thing just stalled," the driver called back.

Great. What other crap could happen to him? The driver got out and popped the hood. Weyland also got out and stood by, watching helplessly as the driver fiddled with the engine. Finally he looked up and shrugged apologetically.

"Transmission's shot. They'll have to tow it. Don't worry sir we'll have another limo for you right away."

Weyland made no reply just stared at the oncoming traffic. For a short time he just stood there, watching the oncoming traffic. Then he spotted another limousine, midnight blue slowing down. It came to a stop beside the other car and the tinted window slid down. If a man had leaned out with a gun and shot him, Weyland could not have been more surprised. In the limo, smiling the same hidden smile, was Jason Van Grey. "Can I help?"

The limousine had not even started picking up speed before Weyland began rapid-firing questions at Van Grey whose smile never wavered.

"What's going on here?" Weyland asked furiously. "I try to call you and your receptionist said I was rejected! Rejected for what?"

"I wouldn't worry about it. It's a rehearsed speech. She must've gotten the accounts mixed up," Van Grey replied

"Accounts? I have no accounts with you!" Weyland snapped.

"It was an honest mistake. I'll have a talk with her if that's what you like," Van Grey replied. "Tell me, how did your lawyers take to my information?"

"Take to it! They told me it was bullshit. They'd have me pleading guilty for Christ's sake!"

"Unfortunate. Nevertheless I was prepared for it." Van Grey said calmly. "Did you get my note?"

"Yeah I got your note? What are you trying to pull?" Weyland said.

"I pull nothing," Van Grey said and his calm finally seemed to be slipping. "I don't play games with my investments. I intend to let you go free. Then I intend to collect my pay. Simple business."

"But how did you know? And where did you get that information anyway?" Weyland asked now more shocked than angry.

"I have my sources. It's all easy to find. Some of the stuff you don't even need clearance for." Van Grey said. "Look, you're on the edge and you're overlooking things. Your lawyers are big names but this isn't what they do. They're good at bending the rules, but they're not in this one hundred percent."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they've given up on you. They see the company sliding. Even without the charges Weyland-Yutani's stock was starting to plummet. They don't need you anymore because other companies are starting to make it big. The head of the firm just retired and his successor doesn't like you one bit."

"How do you know?" Weyland asked.

"It's my job to know now isn't it?" Van Grey said. "The politics of it are tangled and confusing but understand this: they want to see you hang."

"Well it doesn't matter now does it?" Weyland sat back defeated. "In two and a half hours they'll get their wish."

At this Van Grey just smiled his mysterious smile "Not if I have a say in the matter. Stick with me and you won't go wrong,"

They pulled up to a modest looking two story building about ten blocks from the Kensington and Raymond Weyland and Jason Van Grey got out. Van Grey beckoned Weyland to follow him and the two men went inside.

"What are we doing here?" Weyland asked studying his surroundings.

"We need another defense counsel don't we?" Van Grey replied amused and after exchanging a few words with the secretary at the desk, led Weyland to an office down the hall. The door was open and Weyland could see a man in his early forties, wearing a shirt and tie, sitting at the desk and eating a Big Mac. His hair was a dark brown and he looked like going easy on the Big Macs would do him a world of good. He got up and shook hands with the two men as they entered. Then beckoning them to sit, he introduced himself.

"Good morning, my name is James Cinq. Attorney at law, focusing on criminal charges and custody cases. Nice to meet you Mr. Weyland"

"Nice to meet you," Weyland echoed. "Kind of a strange combination isn't it?

"Hey what isn't these days," Cinq replied humorously. The man's portly face seemed pleasant enough but there was something about him, something he couldn't quite put a finger on. Something familiar and yet totally alien. Cinq didn't notice and began talking.

"So Jason's been telling me about your problems. Not hard to figure out really. You're all over the six' o'clock news!" Cinq said with a large grin and Weyland chuckled slightly. "But I think we can help you out. The evidence stage may be over but I know the judge. He'll want to hear this stuff."

"Really?" Weyland asked. "My previous counsel told me the information would be useless and the judge won't allow it."

"Well you must've had some dipshit counsel then. Pardon my French," Cinq took another bite of the Big Mac and skimmed through the now familiar sheets. "Yep this stuff would really come in handy. Gotta hand it to Jason really. I didn't think anyone would have the cunning or the balls to come up with something like this. Short of myself that is!" and laughed heartily.

Van Grey smiled "Yes I may have thought it up but I doubt anyone could argue it as well as you. The trial's in two hours. Will you be ready by then?"

Weyland wanted to intervene. They were already deciding and discussing strategies without his approval. But what could he do? His own resources had failed him. He had no choice but to trust this strange man with the mysterious smile. _Stick with me and you won't go wrong._

The courtroom was full even before Weyland and his new lawyer walked in. Faces everywhere filled the seats with looks of satisfaction imprinted on them. They knew he was done for. _Or so they believe_, Weyland thought. His confidence had been boosted by Cinq who had explained his entire strategy to him while Van Grey had stood by and nodded. He saw a news crew setting up a camera in a corner. Then he reached the defendant seat and sat down, with Cinq on his left. The prosecution arrived a moment after and it wasn't long before the jury began filing in.

"All rise! The honorable judge Harry Eliot presiding," the bailiff called. The judge sat down and opened his file.

"Good afternoon. As you all know today is the conclusion of the case of State vs. R. Weyland and Weyland-Yutani. We'll have closing statements by the prosecution," Eliot said.

The head lawyer for the prosecution got up and began pacing talking about pretty much what he had talked about until then. Weyland had heard most of it and didn't bother listening to it again. The prosecutor finished and the defense was called. This was it. Cinq smiled reassuringly at him before rising.

"Your Honor I have in my hand several documents containing evidence that will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that outside circumstances were involved in the LV-1201 incident, circumstances over which my client had no control." And the room erupted in a mix of whisperings and gasps. The judge banged the gavel and called for order.

"You are the new counsel for Mr. Weyland?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Honor. I am," Cinq replied, his large eyes looking directly at the judge.

"The evidence stage was concluded last week counselor," the judge said.

"Yes Your Honor, but my client was not aware of the existence of these documents until a few days ago. I ask that the evidence be permitted."

"Objection! There is no provision for this!" the prosecution cried.

"Your Honor the evidence does nothing but support the case my client is already making." Cinq pressed.

The judge thought for a moment. "I'll allow this. Present your evidence counselor."

Cinq needed no second bidding. He moved quickly for a man of his bulk distributing copies of the papers to the jury, to the prosecution and to the court reporter for the record. Once this was done he started his case. Several times the prosecution objected, but Cinq maintained his line, and the judge allowed it. It was quite a sight, Weyland thought. The judge who up until this point had worked very much against him was now cooperating as easily as if he had paid him. Had Van Grey paid him? He looked over but Van Grey did not meet his gaze. Instead his attention was focused on Cinq who continued to lay down the evidence.

"… on page 16 you'll see an artist's rendering of the creatures…"

"…logs from Weyland-Yutani's own scientists at the Forward Observation Pods speaking of an intelligent third race…"

"… invisible creature stalked and murdered an entire elite infantry unit…"

Weyland lost track of it all but when Cinq sat down his grin was wider than ever. "We got'em! We got the fuckers!" he whispered and there was no mistaking his pleased tone.

The judge called for a recess and left the courtroom. Van Grey came up to them and asked. "How are we doing Jimmy?"

"Doing? We blew them out of the water!" Cinq replied. "Did you see the look on the prosecutor's face? He's got nothing to touch us now."

"Good," Van Grey said. "Very good."

The court was back in session at exactly 1:45. The judge shifted a few papers then turned his gaze on the jury. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"Yes, Your Honor, we have"

"Very well. Will the defendant please rise?"

Weyland and Cinq stood up. Although Cinq's expression was confident, Weyland still felt tense. What if he was wrong?

"We, the jury, find the accused, Raymond Weyland III, charged with the aforementioned offenses…"

Weyland's grip on the back of his chair tightened considerably.

"…not guilty," the juror finished.

The courtroom once again erupted this time in a mixture of cheers and boos. The judge had to bang his gavel even more fiercely and threaten to throw them all out of court if they didn't keep order.

"Very well. Mr. Weyland you are free to go. Court is dismissed," the judge said, and he rose and left the courtroom.

Weyland didn't even notice. He was too exhilarated, too busy shaking hands and accepting congratulations. Cinq slapped him on the back hard enough to hurt and Weyland shook his hand as well. His jubilation was cut short however as he spotted Van Grey striding towards him. Suddenly the series of events no longer seemed so grand. Van Grey smiled at him and this time it was downright chilling.

"I have fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now you and I have a great deal of things to discuss. A _great_ deal."

Author's note: Yeah I know it's kinda boring, y'all want the action. It's coming. And sorry for taking so long to update. Thanks to those who stuck with it.

-CrutchCricket


	8. The New Hunters

The disc in Celtic's hand expanded to its full length before he fully comprehended the threat. The xenomorph however, wasted no time. It pounced and knocked Celtic into a nearby column. The disc fell out of his hands as the alien scratched furiously at his mask. Celtic didn't seem worried. He grabbed the thing's chest pushed out then heaved. The alien was thrown clear and before it had time to reposition, Celtic slammed into it knocking it into a wall. Not giving the creature time to recover, Celtic grabbed it by the head and swung himself throwing the alien again. The snarling xenomorph flew across the room and landed on the other side of the sarcophagus. The predator's right hand clenched and twin wristblades popped out. With his other hand he pulled out his side blade and roared a battle cry. The xenomorph came at him again, this time climbing a wall and throwing itself downward. Celtic sidestepped neatly and slashed with his wristblades. They tore deep gashes across the alien's head and nearly severed the right arm. However the wounds sprayed acid which splashed all over the yautja's arm. Celtic roared again, this time in pain and kicked the recovering alien. The thing slid back, though not as far as before. It climbed to its feet and hissed. But it was slightly disoriented. The gashes in the cranial case were deep and no doubt interfered with the creature's brain and resonance chambers. Its right arm was useless, but the predator was injured as well. Although he tried to ignore the pain, the acid kept burning his arm making him want to tear the flesh of his own hand.

The alien came at him again, no longer pouncing, but circulating trying to get behind him, ducking behind pillars. Celtic held his ground but his eyes never left the creature. His view, specifically designed to sense the internal microelectric currents of the alien nervous system showed him the world in red, save for the xenomorph itself, which was bright white with darker lines running at random. There was no chance of losing his prey. Sudden movement! A streak of white came running at him from the left. Celtic turned and cocked his left hand ready to make the creature eat his blade. He miscalculated the angle however and the xenomorph, instead of swallowing a knife got what a human would call "the clothesline". It hit Celtic's arm right at the elbow and was knocked down hard. It was not a free victory however. The alien's fully functional left hand scraped down Celtic's chest hard, drawing deep gashes, which made the predator rear back and howl with pain. The thing's tail reared up and assaulted his back. Celtic attacked the only way he could; he twisted his arm and brought his side blade down into the alien's chest. Stabbing down with all his might, Celtic forced the blade deeper, ignoring the acid blood that was spilling on all sides. Releasing the blade he stepped back and fell against the sarcophagus. Both his hands were badly burned from the acid and he had to lean against the sarcophagus with his elbows. He looked back at the alien. The thing's tail was whipping back and forth, but Celtic was out of its range. It tried to grasp the blade with its one good hand but was not strong enough to lift it. It tried to rise but the predator's blade had effectively pinned it to the ground. It tried again, screeching, acid blood oozing all around. It collapsed back screeching but noticeably weaker. The acid blood would dissolve the blade in a few more seconds but Celtic didn't think it would be able to get up and attack again. His hands were raw but he lifted them up and inspected them. The right was still of some use. The blood had spilled mostly over his shoulder. His wristblades had also held up to the assault of the acid, although they were severely pitted and not as tough or reliable-looking. His left hand was a little weaker considering he'd held it for a bit to make sure the blade was jammed in deep enough.

Celtic looked at the creature again. It would most certainly die, but its screeches may draw more bugs to his location. Better to kill it quickly. He pressed a button on his wrist computer and the disc sprang to life from where he dropped it and sailed back in to his hand easily. He transferred it to his left, somewhat painfully and went over to the alien. He stomped disdainfully on its head. The alien's tail reared up like that of a scorpion and struck, but Celtic was faster. He grabbed it with his right hand and sheared off the tip with the disc. The alien snarled in fury and tried his left hand, which was also cut off, just as decisively. He was about slice the neck, when the tail reared up again, this time splattering blood at him. The predator's left palm came up as if to swat the substance away, and to an extent it did. The acid hit the disc and most of it splashed off. The remaining blood however chewed at the disc, burning its components and spinning blades. Celtic dropped the ruined weapon before it could further damage his hand. Roaring in anger he slashed with his wristblades. However instead of severing the head cleanly, the blades got lodged in the neck. Celtic roared a curse and yanked them out, blood dripping. He plunged them again but still did not fully cut. The alien was well dead by now but Celtic kept hacking away at the neck until his blades were reduced to molten stumps. His towering rage reaching new heights, Celtic grabbed the head and pulled and was finally rewarded by a ripping sound as he tore the head off the body. He backed away, wary of the acid blood and watched as the creature's corpse sunk deeper and deeper into the ground, the remaining acid blood eating a path through the solid stone.

He couldn't believe it. One alien had robbed him of all his weapons. His disc was useless, his side blade melted and now his wristblades looked like…well stumps. As of now, he was what a hunter should never be: defenseless. Not for long though. Celtic walked to the sarcophagus. He ignored the ornate carvings and focused on the three stone dials. If it had been on one of the Earth pyramids, the entry code was simply the human date. As it was Celtic had to try and tone down his anger and adrenaline and attempt to remember what the code was.

The light predator did not recognize his new surroundings. He had been running for a long time now but had encountered no life. No prey, no fellow hunters. He shifted his vision mode to Predtech briefly and then reverted back to alien. Nothing. He came once again to a crossroads. Stretching in all directions were tunnels he could pursue. At the moment he didn't feel like going down any of them. Where was he? He had studied the map of this place thoroughly. But he could not remember any of this. He finally decided to go left and walked for about 15 feet before coming across a large chamber full of stone tables. He recognized the room at once. It was the breeding chamber for the aliens. The human corpses were still chained to each table, their expressions nearly identical with horror. The light predator did not mind death. He did not mind killing. But this just sickened him beyond what he normally would've expected. Sure he knew all about the breeding of the aliens. But to see the after effects of it was not on his list of entertainment. However he put his personal discomfort aside and though of his next steps. The room was currently a dead end and he had no wish to wait among the corpses, for the pyramid to reconfigure. A plan began to form. He knew the eggs were transported down a conveyor belt then raised on individual moving platforms into their current positions. Which meant that below him there would be access to the other eggs and maybe even to the queen. He was forbidden to kill the queen unless absolutely necessary. Nor did he want to be anywhere near the monster. However the remaining bugs might cluster near the queen. Or they could be called down if the queen perceived him as a threat. He could get down there, destroy the eggs and finish off any xenomorphs that arrive. If he possessed a plasmacaster, the light predator would've done this without delay, but his current weapon cache left him wanting. His remaining bombs, if planted strategically would be more than enough to destroy the eggs. But how many xenomorphs were left? Could he take them down with only two spear clips and a side blade? And if one of the eggs had enough time to hatch… a brief image of him vainly trying to claw a facehugger off his mask, while his air was being cut off and the surrounding aliens clawing _him_ gave him pause. He might as well try. It was better than wondering forever in this shifting maze while the others finished the job. They would come out heroes, while he would need rescuing with multiple wounds and a shameful kill count of 1. That was unacceptable.

He crouched down by the sewer exit. The grating, in the shape of an alien worm was solid steel set in stone. His wristblades were useless against metal that thick as was his side blade. He considered using a bomb, but quickly decided against it. Not only would the resulting explosion probably harm him in the enclosed space, but he needed every bit of explosives he had to take out all the eggs and maybe an adult bug if he was lucky. He stood up and paced angrily. Defeated by bars of metal! Stuck here among corpses of humans and… facehuggers. He spotted one curled up behind one of the tables and another in a corner. He tried to think how long ago they had died. Couldn't be more than a few hours. With any luck they might still be juicy. And their blood might've only partially clotted and oxidized therefore allowing him to safely administer it to the grating without getting burnt. Of course. _And while you're at it maybe you'll find an old plasmacaster down there and fry everything with no worries, _the predator chided himself mentally. A hunter needed to be prepared, not optimistic. Still it was worth a try.

He walked over and grabbed the facehugger and was somewhat encouraged by the fact that it was still a little slimy. He crouched and positioned it on the grating, wrapping the things tail and curling its arachnid legs around the bars. Using a rock he had found to keep the thing in place, he pulled out his side blade and bisected the alien. He could already hear the sizzling and the stuff beneath his hand have a little. He pushed the remains and sliced at them some more. The sizzling was louder and suddenly the whole grating just caved in and fell from sight. The light predator examined his newly pitted blade, and then used it to chisel away at the remaining acidic rock. He then examined the opening. It was small enough for aliens and even humans might pass through. It was a different story for predators. He was convinced none of his comrades could fit. However his smaller size finally paid off. He could climb down there and the tunnel was narrow enough so he wouldn't fall directly. He could worm his way down. It was not a particularly comforting course of action, and he didn't even want to think what could happen if he was caught in the middle of the hole by a xenomorph waiting for an easy meal. Not only was the maneuverability almost zero, but he had to drop all his weapons and gear through first, if he had any hope of fitting through. It was not a particularly nice choice. He refused to think of the embarrassment he would bring the clan if they had to dig up his defenseless body from the hole he had wedged himself into.

As he was thinking, the pyramid shifted again, and the path he had taken to get in was now closing. The entrance at the opposite side of the room opened with a rumble revealing more darkness. The light predator finally decided and crouched by the hole again. He scanned down the hole using every vision mode even thermal. An empty floor greeted him every time. Hesitating only briefly, he dropped his speargun and bombs and switched to Predtech to view their progress. His medkit and plasmacaster mount were next and when they had made the small thud of hitting the floor, he scanned down again. Other than his gear in a disorderly pile there was nothing. Pausing again he finally unhooked his mask and energy pack. He was now nearly blind and very much naked by predator standards. Since he had progressed this far, he blocked anymore halting thoughts and dove headfirst into the hole.

Predator walked through the shifting pyramid looking for any sign of his fellow hunters. Although a predator may choose to separate from his group if it betters his hunt, he found that neither wise nor useful at this point. They were still inexperienced as far as hunting goes and were facing very potent prey. A single attack had managed to break them up and injure them quite severely in some cases. But still he himself, had given the bugs he encountered quite the fight. Yes, he was inexperienced now, but he would rise to become a great hunter in his clan with thousands of bug deaths attributed to his name. Yet this new period of inactivity was starting to displease him. He knew that, for some hunters, it was all in the chase, the stalking of the prey, rather than the kill itself. Stalking humans or other intelligent prey in an open environment was one thing. Predator had no particular interest in wondering down identical hallways waiting for an alien to kill him.

He turned the corner… and nearly fell into a large hole had appeared out of nowhere. He crouched by its edge and looked down. He saw old skeletons. Human skeletons mostly, although by the shapes of the protrusions, not all of them were bilaterally symmetric. He thought about the pyramid. He knew the elder's didn't always use humans to create the aliens in the pyramid, simply because they were not always available. After a hunt had ended and the queen was secured, the corpses were brought to a chamber and left there to rot. The newborn aliens sometimes found their way into that chamber and fed of the detritus. No doubt the place smelled hideously, but the mask's internal air filters mercifully blocked that smell. What interested Predator was the fact that the chamber was in the substructure of the pyramid and thus not actively part of the maze. There were maintenance tunnels to every part of the pyramid deep underground. Some reached to this chamber and some reached to the queen's chamber. By jumping down into the chamber he could make his way along the maintenance passages, to the queen's chambers. No doubt the closer he'd get the more xenomorphs he'd encounter. A better course than wondering in the maze for hours. He was about to jump when a new consideration entered his mind. The eggs. He had nothing he could take them out with and there was no way he'd hack at them with his spear. His flechette was good, but that job called for a plasmacaster.

He turned and walked back to the junction. He tried to force his mind to remember the way he had come then realized the futility of it. The way that was open now, would not be open 10 minutes from now. He growled in frustration and would've continued to be lost in thought when suddenly he heard a thud to his left. Spear at the ready he moved cautiously forward.

Celtic had been staring at the sarcophagus for a good 5 minutes before he slammed his good fist down on it. What was the damn code? He needed to hurry; he didn't have much time before the pyramid shifted again. It was probably some little formula for solving the code. The last date added with the number of moons in this system, divided by the elder's birthday or some nonsense like that. He twisted one dial absentmindedly and was rewarded with a hollow click. The first lock was open. He immediately focused all his attention on the other two. It did have something do to with ages, of that he was sure. Their cumulative ages! He twisted the second lock and growled in satisfaction as it clicked. The way to solve the third lock became evident to him for because he remembered it was always the same. The year of the Clan. He twisted the dial and the lid twisted aside with a deep rumble. A sort of fog covered the inside of the sarcophagus, but Celtic waved it aside impatiently. He finally saw his prize. A brand-new plasmacaster, it muzzle gleaming even in the low light. He grabbed it quickly and mounted it on his shoulder. When it was firmly secure, he connected the control cables. He flicked on his wrist computer and activated it. The whirr of the plasmacaster as it turned seeking prey was like music to his years. Now he would hunt. He would kill the bugs and finish this chore. He strode down a tunnel on the right. It never occurred to him to close the sarcophagus or to carry an extra weapon for his comrades. Let them find their own way. Celtic had aliens to kill.

Walking down the various corners of the pyramid, Celtic was busy imagining the glory he'd receive after this task was over and he was a full hunter. He would hunt the aliens; he would hunt the humans, he would hunt whatever prey there was and would gain more trophies than any other. He would become the greatest in the clan, the greatest in any clan. He had expressed these ambitions at one time or another and had always been told to keep his mind disciplined and focused on the task and hand, or otherwise received a derisive snort and dismissal from older hunters. He had tried to keep these thoughts to himself after that, but his nature simply wouldn't allow him. Well he would show them. And no one would dare to snort at him then. He turned at a junction and followed another passageway. He probably would've continued to fantasize but suddenly he realized he wasn't alone. Cursing himself for allowing his thoughts to take away from his senses he advanced cautiously. Whatever it was, it was just around the corner and it was fairly big. His vision set to red, he stared at that corner as if willing to see through it and didn't notice the stray rock in his path. He kicked it accidentally and it took all his control not to snarl in frustration. The rock however, slid a couple of feet and slammed against a wall. Whatever it was it had been alerted. Celtic forgot subtlety and charged in, plasmacaster at the ready.

Predator heard the thing freeze than pick up speed towards his location. He stood on the left, close to the wall ready to jab the spear at anything that came through. Whatever it was, it was really large. Predator braced himself and nearly impaled Celtic when the latter came charging down the hallway. Only a last minute adjustment saved Celtic from a fatal accident. Celtic for his part, grabbed the spear indignantly and roared at his fellow hunter, targeting lasers pointed right at his forehead.

Predator's first impression was one of surprise that he found Celtic again in this maze. The surprise turned to admiration and a little jealousy that he had found the plasmacasters, to anger that he didn't grab the others for his comrades and finally to surprise as he noticed Celtic had no other weapons on him. When he asked Celtic what had happened, Celtic snarled that it was none of his business and releasing his spear, moved past him towards the burial chamber. Predator fought down his own anger, reminding himself that a fight with Celtic was not to his benefit right now. Retracting his spear he followed the other predator down the hallway. At the hole Celtic stopped and glanced in disgust at the bones. What was he doing here? Predator explained that he was going to jump down before he heard Celtic coming. At this Celtic gave a dismissive wave and replied that if Predator wished to craw among the corpses, it was his choice, he was going hunting.

Predator was finally unable to further control his temper. He roared and explained his plan, stopping only to discredit Celtic's intelligence. Celtic was surprisingly non-responsive at first but as he started to notice his fellow hunter's wounds and trophies he paid more attention. Finally seeing the benefits of his plan, he gave in and jumped down. Predator, surprised by this uncharacteristic change of heart, forgot the rest of his insults and dropped down after him. The two predators walked down the tunnel looking for the egg chamber.

Walking in the gloom of the pyramid catacombs, Predator began to doubt the validity of his plan. The maintenance tunnels themselves were quite lengthy and they were beyond the route they studied on the holo map before the hunt. Spear at the ready he noted his companion's burnt hands and lack of weapons again. What had disarmed him like that? For the first time he was fully aware of the danger they were headed in. Not even the most experienced hunters could claim they walked into an alien hive and came out unscarred with a dozen trophies. As he was walking he heard the familiar rumble that signaled the change in the pyramid. That and a quick glance at his companion's plasmacaster restored his confidence. Predator knew that even through the thickness of his arrogance, Celtic would realize that he was in the best position to take out any facehuggers as they were a common threat to both of them. With that taken care of, Predator felt confident he would be able to handle the remaining bugs. And they no longer had to worry about the pyramid. And the queen's chamber was no hive. Yes it had bugs and facehuggers. But the queen itself was immobile, and this was still a Yautja structure. Even if they failed, which he refused to think about, the remaining xenomorphs would be neutralized.

His thoughts were interrupted by Celtic's signaling. There was light at the end of the tunnel. Not very much, probably maintenance lights left on for some reason. Advancing slowly they entered the chamber and stood taken aback. In the short time of the ritual hunt, the aliens had managed to cover the entire chamber with their characteristic slime. Eggs were scattered everywhere, showing no clear geometric pattern but not in total disarray either. Predator's gaze was drawn however was drawn to the queen. Suspended by chains with the egg sac in its entirety, it did not seem altogether possible that it was alive. It stirred slightly, but showed no other signs of life. In fact the whole room was too quiet. It didn't seem possible that all the bugs were lost somewhere in the pyramid, looking for them.

Celtic started to advance, but Predator stopped him with a restraining hand. Movement! A facehugger scrambled between the eggs and leaped at them. Celtic's plasmacaster flared and vaporized the thing in mid air. He growled as if the facehugger was a mild annoyance. Predator had other thoughts however. The room was now far from dead. The queen lifted her head and looked right at them. It roared, a deafening sound that gave even Celtic a moment's hesitation. Then he was moving firing his plasmacaster at the eggs as he advanced. The queen roared again and then the room really erupted.

Screeching, the xenomorphs came out of every conceivable tunnel, hole, and crevice. Simultaneously, the eggs began to split open and spidery legs appeared, furiously shrugging off the layers of slime that encased them. Celtic was firing wildly, though Predator noted he was aiming mostly for the hatching eggs. For his part he slashed left and right with the spear and was rewarded with a screech nearly every time. There was no shortage in targets. He slashed and removed the head of one bug, reversed his grip and stabbed another. In a corner of his mind, he was pleased that, for all their differences, he and Celtic had managed to fight in unity. Back to back, they kept advancing, rotating to face threats that would've destroyed the other. If an alien got to close for Celtic's plasmacaster, Predator would wheel and impale it with his spear. If a facehugger dried to get the drop on him, Celtic would vaporize it in an instant.

It was a fine tactic but it would not hold. More and more eggs were hatching, and the xenomorphs were attempting new strategies. _They learn_, Predator thought desperately. He risked a look at Celtic's plasmacaster. The muzzle was red-hot from the charges. It seemed amazing that it had not yet overloaded. Celtic didn't notice, he kept on firing. It would overload, Predator realized. Either by overheating the safeties would kick in and it would simply stop firing or it would explode. Both led to the same shameful end. He rotated and started moving towards the opposite end of the room to a tunnel. If they could get there, they'd bottleneck the bugs and have a much easier time with them. Celtic sensed the change and followed still blasting from his shoulder. Predator tried to yell a warning to tell Celtic to stagger his fire. The screeching of the bugs however drowned out the sound. Celtic roared inquisitively but the distraction cost him greatly. An alien pounced right at him.

Sensing the momentum Celtic turned and fired but the thing was already too close. The shot tore through the alien's chest but with the proximity of the blast and the alien's acidic bodily fluids spraying everywhere, Celtic got a back draft of death in his face. The shock drove him back and he screamed as the acid began eating at him. This was much worse than getting his hands burned. His entire torso felt like it was on fire, and the acid hissed and sputtered as it ate at his mask. He backpedaled past Predator and fell to the ground vainly trying to unhook his equipment.

Predator knew they were finished. He'd never be able to hold them off with the spear. He reached to activate his self destruct. In the interest of preserving the pyramid, they had been equipped with minor charges instead of a standard phase explosive so it would only give nearby enemies a final treat but leave most of the structure intact. Predator backed up and he fumbled with his wrist console. The xenomorphs hesitated slightly, watching his behavior curiously. He was about to hit the final button when a small winged disk zipped past him and landed in front of the xenomorphs. He only had a split second to recognize what it was. It was all he needed, and as he hit the ground a deafening boom shook the chamber. The aliens that were not killed in the explosion backed up, screeching furiously.

The light predator emerged from the tunnel, badly burnt but otherwise in fighting condition. He jumped on a ledge and flung his remaining bombs around the room. Pressing the button on his console caused the entire room to quake violently and the ceiling began to cave in. The queen roared in fury and struggled against her chains. The aliens took up her roar and they rushed the hunters again. The light predator took out his spear gun and started firing into the masses. Alarms began to sound. Predator recognized them. The end of the hunt. And also the emergency alarm. The situation was far too volatile now. They had caused structural damage. He didn't know what would happen to them if they survived. Would they be full hunters? Or be judged as failures for breaking the rules of the ritual? Battle instinct drowned any more thoughts he might've had as he once again began hacking at the approaching bugs. He spotted Celtic's discarded plasmacaster out of the corner of his eye. Yelling for cover he ducked and grabbed it. The light predator stepped in front of him firing spear after spear, sometimes three at a time. Predator didn't notice this, or Celtic's plight. All of his attention was on getting the shoulder cannon hooked up to his suit. Despite everything, he was surprised how calmly his hands worked, methodically connecting the cables and bolts. He heard the startup whine and his three-point laser targeting system flashed on. Without even waiting for the triangular lock to set in, Predator began firing. And he kept firing. When a drone prepped to pounce at him, he fired. When the light predator ran out of ammo and nearly got torn in half as he reached for Predator's spear, he fired. He fired and fired until the ground ran with acid and then he fired some more. He and his companion began backing up into the tunnel.

Celtic had managed to get his mask and shoulder cannon mount off. His armor was burnt. His skin was burnt. Everything was burnt. It caused him great pain to move. He couldn't believe it. His great hunt, his chance for glory and it had been dashed away from him. To die here or have the disgrace of being pulled out by a hunter, a real hunter seemed more than he could bear. Well perhaps he could still be useful. He spotted a side blade in the light predator's net suit. He'd use that. Slash a few bugs and get trophies. He would not be the hero, but he would be a hunter. He started to crawl towards the light predator determined to get up and fight. With his less than adequate natural vision, he never saw the facehugger scurry towards him until it hit him in the face. Its tail wrapped around his throat before he could scream for help. He could feel the vise-like grip of its arachnid legs on his skull and he tried to claw it off. He knew it was no use, but a part of him remained that was determined to fight, determined to be a hunter. He realized with horror that the impregnating tube was already sliding into his mouth and he tried desperately to clamp down, to close his mandibles. But there was no give. Celtic slumped and the last conscious thought he had was a curse for all things alien.

Warning alarms rang throughout the pyramid. The shifting had stopped. The sky above the pyramid shimmered as the Yautja ship hovered perfectly above it. Warriors and technicians scrambled from the craft, ready to neutralize the situation. No one knew the fate of the young hunters, if they would make it out alive, or what would happen to them after. They were not there to interfere with that. They would simply secure the queen for cryo-stasis freezing and clean up the refuge. Plasmacasters at the ready, they proceeded into the tunnels.

The two young predators moved quickly down the corridor, bleeding from many places. The light predator was using the spear for a prop as well as a weapon. Predator finally stopped them and glanced back. No xenomorph was following. They had either got them all or they had retreated. Retreat did not seem likely so that must mean that all the drones were dead. They had completed their quota. But would the elders accept it, given the damage they had caused? That remained to be seen. There was nothing they could do. Urging the light predator onwards, they began making their way towards the surface.

It was not long before they were found by the clean-up crews. From there, they were taken up to the main chamber where an elder was waiting. A nearby hunter took the plasmacaster and spear. Custom then required them to take off their masks, which they did. After that they were interrogated mercilessly by the elder. Predator knew his blooding might actually depend on his answers but at this point he cared very little. He was exhausted and needed medical help. Still he answered the questions truthfully and did not miss the impressed look the elder gave him when he described his initial battle with the drone and the facehugger. The elder finally asked about Celtic's whereabouts. Predator answered that he didn't know, he must've died in the queen's chamber. The elder nodded and turned and chattered briefly into a wrist comm. After listening to the response he turned back to the predators with a worried expression. Celtic's body was not in the chamber. They had found his mask and equipment. But the body was gone. Tinny screams and roars suddenly arose from the elder's wrist comm. They were followed by a screech that ended in a chatter sounding, shockingly familiar. The elder turned to his aides and barked an order, his expression of grim fury. Then his cape swirling, he beckoned the young hunters to follow him as he made his way towards the exit.

They had barely made it outside when hissing chatter came from behind them. A thing dropped down and Predator could not keep his mandibles from opening wide in shock. The thing standing before them was as tall as he was. The skin was a lighter shade than a usual xenomorph, almost tan. It was bigger and stronger than a drone. But its head was by far the most shocking. The creature's mouth was composed of four mandibles two small on top and two larger on the bottom. Its head was not as elongated as a drone's, but ended in a few extensions that could almost pass for Yautja dreadlocks. Though it had no eyes, the similarities were unmistakable. There was no longer any doubt about what had happened. The creature's mandibles opened and a toothed tongue shot out, baring its teeth at the hunters before disappearing back into the creature's mouth. Then with a roar the thing pounced. It went straight for the elder before the predator could have a chance to draw his weapon. Knocking the elder down, the predalien began furiously tearing at his face, while its tail whipped back and forth at the young hunters. Predator was the first to react. Activating his energy flechette, he fired a salvo of shot at the creature, trying desperately to aim so as to not hit the elder. The predalien turned, roaring as it came for him. The light predator took this opportunity to leap for the thing's back and plunge his side blade through the spinal column. He slashed downward, trying to cut as much as he could before the blade disintegrated. The predalien's tail whipped back and embedded itself in the light predator's spine, essentially trying the same thing. But it was already losing motor functions. The light predator jabbed a final time then pushed off as they both crashed to the ground. Predator took over from there, firing shot after shot into the thing's skull until the frantic beeping of the overload safety finally got through to him.

The elder got up and brushed himself off. Save a huge scar running down the side of his face, he was unharmed and unphased. He looked at the young predator and chattered a response. The pride on his face was enough to know that it was not one of scolding.

The death of the predalien marked the final xenomorph to fall in this unusual blooding ritual. The clean-up crews eradicated the remaining eggs and forced the queen back into cryo-stasis. Leaving the workers to clear and repair the structural damage the hunter returned to the ship for the ceremony. Two new blooded would grace the clan trophy room from now on. Predator, his new equipment gleaming stood at the center of attention, with the light predator by his side. Who cared if this equipment was not the top of the line? He had his whole life to gain new weapons and customize them. He was blooded. He was a hunter now. That and his new nickname, which translated roughly to Cross-Shaped Scar or just Cross made his chest rise to its maximum capacity. A part of him still felt sorry for Celtic. He had not only failed, but had been given the worse possible death. They had never shared friendship but in him, a sense of comradeship had arised during the blooding. Though none of the blooded would give him much of a second thought, Cross would remember him from time to time. When he wasn't hunting of course. Because now there would be hunting. Cross smiled to himself. A great deal of hunting.


	9. The Project

Author's Note: Wow this story is old. And I was honesty unsure whether I would ever finish it. I must apologize to anyone who's stuck with it for this huge delay in updating. On the plus side not only do you get **two** new chapters but I have faith that I can stick with it better this time. So… here's to hoping the next few chapters won't take three years!

(P.s. Reviewing a lot does help speed up the progress!)

Disclaimer. I'm sure you know by now that AVP doesn't belong to me. If it did, would I be wasting my time on here? Yep probably. But the point is I get no money for this and no guarantee anyone actually reads it. Also I'm poor. So attempting to sue would not only be a giant waste of time but as firm a declaration of your moronic nature as sticking your head in the microwave to get yourself a tan.

* * *

Over the course of the following year, Raymond Weyland met not just with Van Grey, but with seemingly an endless supply of engineers, archeologists, exobiologists, programmers and several consultants in various fields, from robotics to construction, from aeronautical engineering to exoecologists, these meetings all arranged by his new venture partner Jason Van Grey. Dozens of meetings, some in his office or conference room, some at restaurants. He did notice that he was not invited back to Van Grey's office. Whenever Van Grey was present it was always at a public place. Following Van Grey's instructions Weyland had also hired James Cinq and a few other lawyers from his firm to handle the legal end in place of the lawyers he had unceremoniously fired before his trial. Though the sudden flurry of activity was kept well hidden from the press and the public at large, rumors spread inside the corporation quite freely; Weyland was starting another multi-billion dollar project. The higher-up execs had a little more concrete data to go on. The project codename would be Graysite. It would be two-part armored research and development facility on a yet unspecified planet. Primary functions would include archeology, geology to name a few, though the facility would be fully equipped to handle any scientific discovery. Weyland went through the preliminary preparations personally and a lot of the details he actually outsourced to different companies as directed by Van Grey. The day came however, when he was called upon by the board of directors to explain his new activities. It was to this board meeting that he walked to, with Arthur by his side.

Weyland had a new look about him. The pre-trial tired and beaten demeanor was long gone. His blue suit was crisply pressed, his tie immaculate, his face clean-shaven and fresh. His life was filled with purpose now, his days often over clocked with appointments and meetings of all sorts. This did not mean he was necessarily back to good humors. The cold figure of Van Grey always presided over him, and though it was never apparent in any meetings with outside sources (or if it was, it was politely ignored) Weyland was not the controlling factor here. Van Grey directed where they would go next, what he wanted built. He set up the timelines, he hired the help, using all Weyland-Yutani's resources quite liberally. The only thing Weyland really had to do was to consent, to approve all the transactions and plans. Though he had never bothered before, now he immersed himself in the technical details for the distraction it provided. He soon discovered that if you sink low enough into the details, you can almost forget the big picture. Talking over equipment and building specifications, he could almost treat this as a pet project a private desire of his. It enabled him to temporarily forget the big picture. But then came the summons to the board meeting and Weyland was once again forced to look at the big picture.

Facing the big picture he now also faced his own board of directors, which were assembled in front of him, impatiently interrogating him.

"Where is this facility going to be built?" his CFO asked.

"The planet is called Beroc 7. It's in an uninhabited system just outside Quadrant 22."

"Atmosphere?"

"Same as Earth, with a slightly higher concentration of nitrogen. It supports fairly large plant and animal growth. It biosphere is only 2% less than that of Earth, but it's nearly 3 times the size of LV-1201," Weyland answered as if he was a tour guide.

"Funny you should mention LV-1201," the director of P.R. muttered. The rest of the room nodded in silent agreement.

"Now look. I agree the incident on LV-1201 was a huge mistake," Weyland said ignoring the sarcastic expression of the PR guy's face. "But that does not make us incapable of research and development. If you'll look at your packages, the differences should be obvious. First of all, over 85% of facility functions including specimen handling and defenses are fully automated, thus reducing the number of staff we have working there. That coupled with Mr. Van Grey's proposal to purchase over three dozen scientific synthetics as well as several state of the art combat synths bring estimates that the skeleton crew required to run the facility could be as small as 10-15 people."

"Ah, so we'd just be wasting good equipment instead of good people," Janson, the director of H.R. said disdainfully. Having lost a nephew on LV-1201, he was particularly brutal at meetings.

"Now settle down Don," Al Nichols the Vice-President said in a diplomatic tone. "Raymond, please understand. None of us hold you personally responsible for the LV-1201 disaster. Hell though it was your project we all pulled our share. So in a way, we're all in this together. Hell we are in this together. Don't we decide the course of this great ship that is our company? We all have to lookout for icebergs from time to time. We're not the Titanic after all." This remark brought a chuckle from the room.

"On that note, we did scrape our underbellies, if I may continue the analogy. So now an obvious course is to proceed with caution. We're Weyland-Yutani after all, one of the biggest companies around. We're not just a ship, we're a damn fleet. But if we want to stay that way, our ships must all sail in the same direction"

Nichols' little speech brought a few cheers from the room. Weyland had to admire the political maneuvering but didn't believe it for a second. Without anyone to pass his stock to, if Raymond stepped down or become incapacitated Nichols would be next in line for leadership with the largest amount of stock. Weyland's own 51% would be split evenly between the members of the board. It was a long standing policy at Weyland-Yutani that majority control should never be left hanging. It incapacitated the board and slowed down the whole corporate machine. The founding Waylands and Yutanis realized the value of maintaining a perpetually running brain behind their giant in order to stay competitive. That was one of the reasons why getting on the board itself was extremely difficult unless you were a descendant of the original owners. The whole "sailing in the same direction" mentality. Board members were long standing company execs who swore to its goals and demonstrated that they could get with the program and stay with it. It was awfully clever to invoke that mentality at the meeting. A veiled way of saying Weyland was no longer getting with the program. And in their view, even a Weyland had to get with the program to stay on top. Especially a publicly discredited one. If he did not, there would be consequences.

In the face of this, Weyland had very little. He knew the "get with the program" way of thinking all too well. The only two directors as far as he knew that hadn't got with the program were Albert Herman and Bill Kardon both who opposed the LV-1201 project. Both were promptly fired by a majority vote in which Weyland fully participated. Herman who was already in his mid 50s had tried getting a job at OCP but the prospect of starting over at the bottom after so many years had been too daunting for him to make a successful change. That coupled with the fact that he knew very little of the more secret projects of his former employers had OCP firing him a mere five months after he started. He soon slipped into drunkenness and violence, prompting his wife to grab their 7 year-old daughter and make for the hills. A lost custody case had him sink lower and lower into a depression. The remainder of his savings he squandered on booze, drugs and prostitutes, leaving him a decrepit junkie in an equally decrepit apartment in a section of town that would make the ghettos cringe. Kardon was an even more tragic story. After his realease, the 38-year old former director of Finance launched a law suit against Weyland-Yutani for wrongful termination. Two days before the conclusion of the trial (and Weyland was sure Kardon would've won), Kardon was involved in a terrible car accident when his Ford sedan got rammed by a truck going at 88 mph on the freeway in the wrong lane. Police had to forcibly separate the wrecks and use dental records to identify the body. The other driver was carrying a highly corrosive industrial acid and his body was cleanly disposed of. Though this matter was never brought up, every member of the board knew exactly what it meant to get with the program… and what it meant to fail to do so.

"I understand where you're coming from Al," Weyland said. As impatient as he was for this little game he had no choice but to play it for now. "But the reason our 'ships' are sailing at all is because we're not afraid to progress. My family along with our Yutani partners built this company to be larger than life. Consider where we now stand. Colonization of nearly all planets mankind has ever stepped on has been possible largely because of us. We've led the industry in off world construction, robotics, and even weapons divisions for centuries. That's a hard claim for anyone to make. But we've achieved all we've achieved because we've had the balls to go where others wouldn't. We've had setbacks, yes. Some would consider the xenomorphs to be the bane of our existence, dating back to their first discovery aboard the Nostromo."

"You do nothing but point out our mistakes!" Janson broke in again. "That whole chain of events could've been avoided. We colonized LV-426 specifically because we knew the aliens would be there. Hell we even tried to bring them back, several times! If Ripley hadn't died on that prison world I can't begin to imagine the shitstorm she could've rained down on us!"

"Granted attempting to bring the aliens to Earth was a mistake. One that my father and grandfather made, along with your respected predecessors on this board, mind you. And I agree we should have nothing more to do with hives of xenomorphs. This is precisely why Graysite is an important project! We need to show ourselves and the world that we are in fact, capable of stretching in many directions and achieving what we set out to achieve. Now if there is one race that is more fascinating that the xenomorphs it is their makers." Weyland pressed.

"You're referring to the so called Pilots? Or Jockeys perhaps?" Nichols said again. "What possible advantages can we gain by digging them up? Their technology is so different from ours it's unlikely to yield anything useful within our lifetime, not to mention that it's millennia old. We don't even know if it'll function the way it's meant to."

"But how about their biology? Or their geothermal power sources? They were obviously an advanced race. They did make the xenomorphs…" Weyland asked exasperated.

"And ended up extinct for their efforts! I saw clear images of the one found on LV-426. Chest caved out. If they were so damn advanced, how come they died by their own creations?" Janson replied indignantly.

"Oh come now," a new voice said. "You, the board of this grand company should know the aliens are not that easy to contain."

Weyland turned around and was shocked to see Van Grey standing there, his smile broad, yet without humor, his eyes shining. He was wearing a dark grey suit and carried a stack of folders under his arm.

"Who are you? This is a private meeting!" Nichols demanded, standing. He was clearly distressed by this new arrival.

Weyland also stood. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

"I thought it likely that you would need my help selling Graysite to your own board," Van Grey said, his smile never wavering. "It appears I was right. Gentlemen," he spoke up addressing the room. "My good friend Mr. Weyland has been rather modest about our little project here. Allow me to enlighten you more fully."

"This a private meeting," Nichols said again. "You have no right to barge in and demand to speak."

"Actually seeing as it's still a public corporation in which any stockholder may bring up issues to the controlling body, I do have a right," Van Grey said, a hint of irritation finally showing. "As of this morning I am the proud owner of exactly 1 share in Weyland-Yutani. That and the fact that Mr. Weyland of Weyland-Yutani, and myself as the CEO of CRS signed a contract for a joint venture entitled 'Graysite' gives me all the right I need. So I suggest you sit down, Mr. Nichols and get informed on what the 51.000000001 per cent of your company is doing."

Nichols was flabbergasted and sat down in silence. Van Grey motioned Arthur to being distributing the folders and began addressing the now subdued board.

"Gentlemen, as I was saying before, Mr. Weyland and myself have signed onto a little joint venture that will certainly regain your favor in the public eye as well as boost your profits by more that 35%."

"And how exactly will this miracle venture accomplish this?" Nichols asked.

"Please open your folders, gentlemen. Most of the financial and ecological data is simply a copy of what Mr. Weyland already provided. What I'm here to talk to you about is the actual research we will be doing," Van Grey said. "Now as you know, the focus of this facility is not xenomorphs. As far as we can tell there are no hives currently present. The xenomorphs are neither indigenous nor imported as was the case on LV-1201. The planet is devoid of sentient life but as you already know houses plenty of biological opportunities, the greatest of which is what appears to be a whole Pilot facility buried beneath the surface."

"How do you know this?" a board member asked.

Weyland was expecting a condescending reply. But instead Van Grey only smiled patiently.

"Satellite imagery, picked up some structural anomalies five hundred or so feet underground in an area that has come to be labeled Q-534-6C. Closer up magnetic and resonance scans from an automated ground probe confirmed the structure as artificial. For those of you who want a more specific timeline, turn to page seven."

"About a year ago a government space probe, in search of planets similar to ours stumbled onto Beroc 7. Initial satellite scans were promising but colonization was deemed non-profitable due to the planet's remoteness and relative lack of certain minerals. With the advent of the Weyland trial, Beroc 7 was reconsidered. Probably the government wanted to show it didn't need companies like this one to expand. That's when the anomaly was picked up."

"Wait a second," Janson said. "If you say the government picked it up, how come they're not over there now? Government intervention could screw up any plans this company might make, given the recent pressure."

"Perhaps. But the analysts in charge of the remote satellite imagery happened to write it off as a simple glitch in the feed," Van Grey replied. Something about his tone made Weyland think there was more behind it than a simple technician's error.

Nichols seemed to pick up on that too. "Hell of a mistake. How did you find out about it and they didn't?"

"Because I knew what to look for. I was looking for Pilot artifacts, not good farmland,"

Van Grey replied. It seemed possible and yet, something about it didn't ring right with Weyland. Was Van Grey a government man? He'd heard about covert agencies, agencies that weren't supposed to even exist. Was he from one of those?

As if sensing the suspicions, Van Grey continued. "Look I have some contacts in public service. Especially in areas that interest me. I have an old friend with the space division that drops some data by whenever he feels I might be interested."

"Sounds like you're spying on the government," Janson snorted.

"Spying?" Van Grey asked, a hint of irritation showing clearly now. "This information is all publicly available, if you know where to look. Likely you'll see it in some space exploration magazine a couple of months down the road. However by that time it'll be too late. The government isn't the only one with probes flying around."

"Yes, but you seem to be the only one with probes on the ground. How'd you get all this onsite data?" Janson asked.

"The ground probe was mine. I sent it as soon as I looked through the images my friend gave me," Van Grey answered.

"When were the ground readings taken?"

"Around five months ago."

"So how come no one picked up on this during that time? And where did you get that nifty probe that got you such accurate results in so short a time?"

"I'll confess I instructed my friend to sit on the findings. The government wasn't interested in the planet and as far as he was concerned the data was useless to other companies. As to the probe, our helpful friends at OCP provided that."

"OCP?!" Nichols exploded. "So you let OCP in on this? Surely you can't be so naïve as to think they weren't able to get a copy of your findings for themselves!"

"I would choose my words carefully, Mr. Nichols," Van Grey replied, his voice pure ice. "There is no need for that kind of a tone. And I am certainly not stupid. The probe was not a loan. I bought it and made considerable progress in modifying it to suit my needs and my needs only."

Weyland decided to break in to attempt to calm the situation before it became more volatile. "Now let's all take a breather here. Al, I've looked at this data myself, several times. It is genuine and very secure. Now I'm sure if you hear Mr. Van Grey out, everything will fall into place." He leaned back and shook his head slightly. How could he say that, when he himself still did not know what to make of this new business partner. For a brief moment he suddenly wished he had never met Jason Van Grey. But then he recovered and mentally scolded himself. If he hadn't he would've likely ended up in jail. He just had to make the best of the current situation. Build the facility, monitor it closely, collect the data and get rich. With no xenomorphs present, it should be an easy task. He briefly thought of the other race, the ones that still haunted his nightmares from time to time. He shuddered as the image popped into his mind, fresh as ever. _Focus_, he told himself as he shook his head again and forced himself to pay attention to the meeting at hand.

Van Grey briefly went through the rest of the original data gathered then moved to discuss the facility itself. "Based on the advice of several consultants I have selected the following layout for the facilities. As you can on page 17 of your booklets the Pilot facility is located near a nigh-extinct volcano. I say that because the estimates are that it hasn't erupted or even showed remarkable activity in nearly 5 million years. And my experts all agree the Pilots likely further stabilized it before they built their own facility there. This brings us nicely to our plans."

"If you'll turn to page 23 you'll see the basic outline of our facilities. It consists of the main facility, codename Big Shell which is our topside facility, to be built right on the mouth of the volcano. This consists of the main "core" surrounded by 6 additional pods or "shells" which will contain most of the needed supplies, auxiliary labs, living quarters and so on. The Big Shell will be the first facility to be constructed on Beroc 7. Once this facility is fully operational, we'll have a drill team onsite to tunnel to the Pilot caves. Seismographs have already confirmed the Pilot site is built within a natural cave that was hollowed out the last time the volcano was active."

"Once we have gained access to the cave, we'll begin building a second subterranean facility for onsite study. This is currently labeled "The Dugout" on your sheets. In addition since we also wish to study the environment and ecology of Beroc 7 there will be four simple facilities built around the volcano, at the base, designated EcoLabs 1-4."

"That's well and good Mr. Van Grey," Nichols interrupted. "But what about the costs? You seem to be carefully eluding that point. Not to mention that these timelines seem entirely unrealistic. You expect this "Big Shell" to be operational within two years but with the level of construction you're talking about and at current market capacity that can't be done in less than five. And the amount of tunneling you'd have to do to safely support a facility of this size at 500 feet cannot be done in a mere matter of months as you so outrageously claim."

"Ah a logical man after all, Mr. Nichols," Van Grey replied. "And yet still influenced by bias. The reason you keep claiming impossibility is because you don't want this project to go forward. Well, let me assure you that it will be completed and it will exceed all expectations. But if you insist I will share with you all a more detailed plan of attack that my consultants and I have prepared along with Mr. Weyland and his aides. You yourselves may not know this, but Weyland-Yutani does have the necessary resources to make this happen. What you lack is focus. I am here to provide that focus. You can expect the details will be sent to you in less than 12 hours."

Van Grey promptly straightened and picked up his materials. "Gentlemen if you'll excuse me I have another pressing appointment to attend to. I apologize if I was not able to put your minds at ease today, but in time, I'm sure you'll begin to see things as I do. Until we meet again, I'm sure Mr. Weyland can field any more questions you may have about the project." And with that, Van Grey left as promptly as he had come.

After he had left, Weyland was left facing a slightly more pissed and certainly more confused board of directors.

"Jesus, where'd you find that nutjob?" Janson asked shakily.

"He found me actually. I did do some checking. He comes highly recommended from Microsyn. I talked to Gates himself about him," Weyland responded.

"I don't care if the goddamn President recommended him. The guy still feels like a conman. Or worse," Janson replied.

"How did you get in contact with this Van Grey?" Nichols asked.

"I didn't. He found me. Said he had a deal for me," Weyland had been cautioned about revealing the personal help he had gotten in staying out of jail as part of the deal. "He said the research available at Graysite would re-strengthen our position in the markets. It sounded good so I accepted."

"Accepted? You accepted the deal? Let me fill you in on something Mr. Weyland," Nichols erupted angrily. "Bearing that name and majority control does not make this company your own personal piggy bank. This is a publicly owned corporation. As a board of directors we have a responsibility to act in the best interests of all shareholders. The very shareholders who elected us and-"

"Whose interests you serve only when they coincide with your wants right?" Weyland shot back furiously. "Save the sermon Nichols. I doubt you would've done different had you been in my position and you felt this deal could make you richer. Let's not forget why you, or any of you for that matter are on this board. You want the money and the power, not to represent some poor schmuck with two and a half shares. Well you may have a portion of both but it's never going to be higher than 51%. Majority control has decided. Graysite will go on as planned. This meeting is over!" And with that Weyland stormed out of the room with Arthur at his back, not as gracefully but certainly as purposeful as Van Grey had, leaving a stupefied board behind him.

"You see, I told you it wouldn't be that hard to convince them. Graysite is fully on its way and shall deliver all it's promised," Van Grey said calmly. A couple of months after the dramatic board meeting where its birth was confirmed, Graysite was already drawing the still-vast resources of Weyland-Yutani towards its actualization in the volcano named simply Q-534-6C on a remote forgotten planet named Beroc 7. Granted, the location was unknown to the general population but that didn't stop them from seeing the gears of the financial giant turning or from circulating the rumors of just what the outcome of the gears might be. It was with this that Weyland was once again agitated in front of Van Grey.

"Jason, I'm not talking about the damn board this time. Although if these rumors get nasty enough, you might have to deal with them too. Look at this! We haven't even set foot on Beroc 7 yet and already the headlines are flying!" Weyland pushed a couple of newspapers on Van Grey's desk. Printed in block letters were headlines such as: "Weyland's up to something again!" "Weyland-Yutani secret facility! Planet unknown!" "How many more lives is Weyland's projects going to claim?"

"See what I have to deal with?" Weyland asked furiously.

"A media leak is unfortunately unavoidable. There's always some stressed employee with loose lips just waiting for a bonus from a slimy reporter" Van Grey replied calmly. "Just release the usual bogus about mineral opportunities and terraforming. As long as you don't mention the Pilots or what planet it's on you can say whatever you want."

"It's not just the public I'm worried about!" Weyland shouted. "This flak is just the beginning. I'm talking about commissions and lobby groups, people that have been meaning to shut me down for years. I even got some government pencil neck named Morris bearing down on me with regulations all of a sudden! Inspection standards, offworld facility codes. These guys are vultures!"

Van Grey could not help cracking an amused smile. Weyland was behaving every bit the spoiled rich kid. All about image, very little substance to speak of. He wasn't getting his way and this was his way of throwing a fit. Even calling the inspector a pencil neck sounded funny because Weyland himself was no weightlifter. Weyland must've seen his expression because his eyes became even wider, his tone louder.

"Oh this is funny to you all of a sudden?! Your name may not be on this but you're involved too! If we get sunk, you're going with us!"

"Mr. Weyland I sincerely hope that was not a threat," Van Grey said coldly, all trace of amusement drained from his face. There was such an air of iciness, of danger even that emanated from his eyes that Weyland was silenced at once. "Because I don't take very kindly to threats. Now you've been in business a long time, and your field hasn't been popularity. If you can no longer handle the press…" He trailed off.

"Jason, you know it's not that…" Wayland said, visibly subdued.

"Good! I did not mean to cast doubt on your skills. I'm quite sure you can deal with and quell this little mess. As for the government and any other…annoyances that may arise, just hear them out, be polite, defer them and report their position to me. Together there is nothing we can't accomplish and no one that can stand in our way!" Van Grey stood. "Now the first ship should be reaching Beroc 7 any time to begin construction. I'm sure you have lots of work to do."

Weyland left the office in a daze. He had just been dismissed like a common worker but that wasn't what disturbed him the most. The crazy thing wasn't even that Van Grey didn't seem to fear the government (calling them "annoyances" more than emphasized this fact). Rather what really scared Weyland was that deep down, he fully believed Van Grey didn't need to. Once again as he got back to his office and called the PR people to deal with the media, he wondered just what he had gotten himself into.


	10. The Rising Stakes

Author's note: Yep as promised, not one but two chapters in this update! Initially I was planning on slowly (and I mean **really** slowly) but surely writing chapters on my computer and just releasing everything once I'm done in a giant updatefest of glory! But since I have reason to believe I can actually stick to some tentative writing schedule (I'm also working on an original story) I'll release these two for your enjoyment and go from there. Review, review review!!! Seriously it helps!

Disclaimer: And now for something completely different, the following disclaimer will be written in code (and no I'm not a programmer so if I made a syntax error I don't really care.)

funct disclaimer() {  
var AVP_Ownership=0;  
var beliefIOwnAVP;  
var you=1;  
var tool;

scanf (%s,   
printf("You are a tool");  
}

}

* * *

Five years later…

The building of Graysite was finally complete. Everything had been built according to specification. The drill teams had begun their descent downwards toward the buried Pilot caves. And disaster had already struck. Just before piercing the final hundred meters or so, the drill team had struck a pocket of steam. The team was well trained and immediately attempted to pull themselves and their equipment back. However in their haste to get to safety, they accidentally switched off the automated correction controls, thereby misaligning the drill heads. This would not have been a problem if they had simply shut the machines down and performed a proper recovery. However, the operator of the MOLE driller had reported that the controls were jammed and he was unable to initiate the emergency shutdown. As a result three crew workers died and five more were in critical condition. And so a very distressed Weyland and a seemingly indifferent Van Grey now faced a very irate government inspector named Jack Morris in his office.

"I don't know what you think you're doing Mr. Weyland. Perhaps the exhilaration of your narrow escape from a jail sentence has made you light-headed. But the United Systems government cannot allow your company to instigate another disaster like LV-1201. Frankly I find it a shock that anyone else would even consider getting involved in this," Morris said, indicating Van Grey "but I'm going to see to it personally that you get shut down before the death toll rises on this new deal of yours."

"Mr. Morris, please. Don't you think you're overreacting?" Weyland said trying for his most placating tone. Truthfully he was just deferring to Van Grey's plan to deal with this consequence. Just one more shred of control he gave up to his mysterious partner. "This unfortunate incident wasn't on account of my company's project. The rate of industrial accidents involving death of workers in offworld environments has risen nearly-"

"Don't give me that percentage crap!" Morris cut him off indignantly. "As far as I'm concerned your entire company _is_ an industrial accident, just waiting to happen. Maybe since the public let you off the hook for LV-1201, you haven't bothered to take a look at the public opinion regarding your company. Nearly 40% of people asked would like to see your company seized by the public offices. How your stock manages to stay in the high rollers is quite beyond me. Either your high-powered stockholders are brainwashed or else they're stupid! Stupidity may not be a crime but sending people to die on some cursed world thousands of light-years away is! And I'm gonna see to it that you don't do that anymore!"

"Mr. Morris, I'm sure there's no need for threats or insults here," Van Grey cut in before the situation could get worse. "Now I'm not sure which layer of society your 40% came from, but I can assure you that as a fellow businessman and stock-holder Weyland-Yutani still dominates the market in a wide variety of fields. And I am no fool. I instigated this partnership with Mr. Weyland because I believe this is a marvellous opportunity for ground-breaking research into an alien species that far surpasses our humble technology. We think of it as for the purpose of bettering ourselves, as well as for business applications. And speaking of bettering ourselves I'm sure you know that oftentimes, the most effective way to learn is to do so from mistakes. Mr. Weyland has made his mistakes, truly with disastrous results. However, he and his company are not fools either. We all learned something from LV-1201 and with that knowledge and my abilities at the forefront of this expedition; we can expect nothing short of success."

"You know what this sounds like, Mr. Van Grey?" Morris asked vehemently. "For all your fine speeches, all you've basically told me is: 'We know he fucked up but he's learned his lesson, so let him go and he won't do it again'. I used to work down at the DA's office in my younger years. You know who I heard that speech from all the time? Convicts. Anywhere from assault to rapists to good old murder one. Whether they were alone or backed by some well-meaning but clueless social worker it'd always be the same thing. Head down. Maybe a little feet shuffling. And out it'd come: 'I know I did her wrong. Let me go and I won't hurt anybody no more.' And we'd let'em out. And just as soon as somebody put a knife or a gun in their hand, there they'd be again right back at square one, doing the very same shit they got busted for. No offence, Mr Weyland. We let you go. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna allow someone to put the knife back in your hand."

"As colourful as that anecdote is I think you're missing the point-" Van Grey began but was cut off by Morris who had apparently decided he had enough.

"Save your mild-mannered fancy speeches, Mr. Van Grey. I don't know you. I don't know what kind of business you run. So you'll pardon me if your word doesn't make me feel all warm inside about this latest Weyland deathtrap. This order is non-negotiable. You are to cease operations on Beroc 7 until such time that a government team can be assembled to assess the site. If the committee assigned to this matter decides that the site is worth further investigation, we'll take it from there. The United System's government is willing to negotiate to recover some of your costs for this project but beyond that, you're involvement in…Greysite is done."

And that pretty much summed it up for the next three months. Weyland-Yutani lost control of the entire project and Jason Van Grey and his mysterious company faded back in the confusion. For his part, Weyland ran for his life, his office announcing a vacation to location unknown. With the board after his throat, he had no reason but to flee and hide and hope Van Grey could pull another miracle out of his bag of tricks. The public at large knew all about Greysite by this point and they were nearly as merciless as the board. The fact that official government press releases had attempted to soothe the issue by announcing that only routine safety checks would be performed, public outcry still demanded a complete shutdown. In short the situation seemed to have no redeeming features.

Raymond Weyland might have been set himself apart from his fellow billionaires in the last years but he was not any different when it came to hiding. Staying at a luxurious mountain cottage registered under the name of an opera virtuoso he happened to know, Weyland relied on the caretaker and the television to keep in touch with the real world. He didn't dare step outside himself for fear of that ultimate retribution his board might have finally arranged. His supplies were brought in by the caretaker or his wife and apart from placing them on the kitchen table they never ventured further in the house to see their guest. Weyland didn't exactly hide from them but apart from confirming their identity, he didn't bother sticking around when they were in the house. Any laundry he needed done was dropped down a chute and would return, pressed and clean in the living room the next day. What the caretakers thought of these arrangements Weyland didn't much care to know. When he wasn't waiting for contact from Van Grey, he spent his days pacing the house and watching for any news regarding his company or Greysite. His only recreation came from the owner's extensive video library. In fact Weyland watched more movies in those three months then he had in three years. And he might've stayed there until for another 6 months, until he had viewed the entire collection twice had the board's hired help not found him at last.

He was walking towards the kitchen to begin preparing his dinner when he first noticed the side door slightly ajar. Knowing himself to be very meticulous in securing the home, especially now that he was on the run, his suspicions were immediately raised. He quickly reached into his pocket and brought out what could've passed for a taser. It had started life as a taser but Weyland had a senior engineer at the weapons division tweak it to vary the voltage, including a lethal option. Weyland now inspected it carefully, making sure it was charged and ready to go. He'd feel pretty stupid if he burst in the kitchen with it and found nothing but safety first. And who else could be in the house? The caretaker? They'd dropped off the latest batch of groceries and other supplies at least three hours earlier. It didn't seem likely they would've stuck around or come back for anything. A simple thief? Screw it he thought, and flipped the switch to the lethal voltage. Even if it turned out to be someone harmless, he'd still have a chance to shut the taser down before he caused any permanent damage. He approached the door cautiously and remembering an action movie he recently watched kicked the kitchen door open to make sure there was no one hiding behind it. Unfortunately as he charged in he failed to check the other side of the doorway. With blurring speed black-clad hands gripped his own and twisted the arm holding the taser. A minute later his head was reeling from a blow he never even saw coming. The second one brought him to the ground. He didn't remember dropping the taser but the next time his eyes focused, he saw a non-descript man with a crew-cut casually holding the taser in his hand. He was using his other hand to hold a knife to Weyland's throat. He was dressed all in black, it seemed and his eyes held no pity.

"Poor little rich boy playing with his toys. What was that commando shit you just tried to pull?" he asked almost to himself.

"Please… I'll give you double. Triple. Half what I own. Just- please don't…" Weyland stuttered. His fear did not stem simply from the knowledge of what was going to happen but rather from the emptiness he saw in the assassin's eyes. He really could snap his neck in an instant and he'd feel no differently then if he snapped a pencil. He hadn't fallen silent because his killer cut him off. Rather, his voice fell away as he realized the futility of it.

As for the hit man himself, the plea seemed to amuse him somewhat. He smiled, but the smile never even came close to his eyes.

"Sorry. We've got enough money to keep us happy. It's just that a lot of people want to see you burn. We're men of simple tastes. Once our bank account has been satisfied, we're more than happy to help out our employers. In fact it's a solemn promise. Not something you're very familiar with, are you Weyland?"

"What are you… what do you want?" Weyland asked in a hushed voice.

"Not very smart are you? I told you. A lot of people want to see you burn. That's what's gonna happen. Get your business friend and his slick-shit lawyers to get you out of that. But we're betting it won't happen," the assassin intoned.

"We?" Weyland managed to choke out.

"Yeah, me and my brother. He's out there, just in case someone should interrupt the fun. It was my turn to have fun. Be glad for that. He enjoys this part a whole lot more," the assassin whispered. "Smell that. You're about to have a tragic cooking accident. Your board wishes you happy roasting." And with that he began bringing the taser to bear.

"Wait!" Weyland gasped out of desperation. "If you zap me with that thing, it'll kill me!"

"That's the idea," the killer said, quickly losing patience.

"No! The voltage is raised. I'll be burned to a crisp! They'll know it wasn't an accident!" Weyland was babbling now which only seemed to annoy the hit man more.

"I'm getting real tired of your bullshit. Your blabbing days are done. Now stop crying or I'll make this hurt more," the killer snarled.

"But-"

"I swear, one more word-"

It was the assassin who was now cut off as the right side of his head exploded in a burst of gore, leaving behind a red mist where half his head used to be. The knife pressure on Weyland's throat lessened immediately and the taser fell to the floor a second before the corpse of the hit man crumpled down on Weyland. Mercifully he fell to the right and he was spared the sight of the man's ruined temple up close. Still he let out a scream of shock as he tried to crawl away from the corpse. He had just cleared his legs when the kitchen door burst open again and another figure in black, presumably the late killer's brother burst in, sub-machine gun in hand. He took the scene in and in less than a second had the gun levelled at Weyland's head.

"What happened? What the fuck happened?!" he yelled.

"I don't know. I..I…" Weyland stuttered, too scared to be coherent.

The second hit man was a professional in his own right. Though his outburst might've denoted the emotions beneath, his actions were pure training. Recognizing the gunshot wound for what it was and quickly determining that the mark not only did not have the weapon needed to cause it, but would be incapable of using it, he quickly moved to secure himself away from windows or other possible snipe points. He was top-notch but he wasn't quite fast enough. A shot slammed into his shoulder, causing him to drop his gun. A second shot obliterated his knee and brought him crashing down. Even so the man's training was enough to avoid the final lethal shot. With a grunt of pain, the world of the second hitter focused only on dragging his body under the window sill and out of the line of fire. Grunting and breathing heavily he withdrew some sort of small syringe and shot himself the dose of adrenaline that would give him enough energy hopefully to last through the coming confrontation. The pain of the knee wound was excruciating and it was quite likely he would bleed to death. The sniper, whoever it was could wait as long as it took. As thoughts raced across his pain ridden brain the second assassin was more and more certain he would not live much longer. The only thing he could do was complete his last contract and in doing so also rob the mark's unknown protectors of their victory. Perhaps with Weyland shot the sniper might even rush in attempting to save him. Then the hitman might have a crack at him too. He had lost his brother. He would make damned sure everyone else would lose as well. He reached for his sidearm. First complete the mission objective. Rykov would expect no less. Rykov was dead. Dead like his brother was dead. Truly there was nothing else to live for other than this final task. He gripped his semi-auto firmly, cleared it of its leg holster and slowly raised it.

Weyland gaped at the second assassin incredulously. He was no expert in firearms even though his company manufactured enough of them. But the sight of two of the largest entry wounds he had even seen was just incompatible with the sight of the hitter still struggling to point a gun at him. It just didn't seem possible. The machine-like determinism. He would've expected this from a combat synth. But the man was clearly human. Blood was pouring from his shoulder and his ruined leg, he was muttering and doing what he could not to scream, and yet he was slowly but surely raising his gun taking aim directly at his head. In a few moments the sight of that gun barrel shaking ever so slight would be the last thing Weyland ever saw.

The door banged open again and the man that stepped through it gave both assassin and mark pause. He was a huge man, well over six feet with a muscular frame that seemed to fill the doorway. He was dressed all in black, pants, shoes and shit with a black leather jacket to top it off. Shaggy dark hair sprouted in all directions shorter in front but reaching down to the coat collar in the back, completely obscuring the back of his head and neck. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses despite it being completely dark out. He was carrying what had to be the largest sniper rifle Weyland had ever seen. Of course if his head had been clearer he might have even recognized the model as being manufactured by his own company. The market for these weapons was very restrictive with only the USCM and certain specific military bodies having access to them. Black market copies were available sure. But if you were not of those specific military or governmental bodies or an employee of Weyland-Yutani security owning one was illegal. The WY-102 sniper rifle was essentially a portable rail gun, with rounds being fired having the ability to blow apart armoured steel at velocities way above supersonic. While it was not silent, its raw power made up for any loss of the element of surprise. The fact that the second assassin survived two shots and was still trying to complete his contract spoke wonders about his strength and determination.

All this was apparently quite irrelevant to the huge man wielding the gun. Easily without hurrying, he raised the sniper rifle and pointed it squarely at the assassin's forehead. The assassin for his part attempted to swing the gun around to his aggressor. He never had the chance. His face perfectly blank, Weyland's saviour fired. The assassin's face disappeared. The shot was loud but Weyland was still able to hear the sound of the wall crumbling behind what used to be the hitters head. The body slumped forward, blood quickly covering the floor where his head would've rested.

The big man lowered the rifle back to easy and glanced at Weyland with an expression that might've been appropriate at a lecture that's gone on too long. When he finally spoke his voice though powerful was oddly flat and monotone.

"Raymond Weyland. Your life has been threatened. You must be relocated."

"Who… who are you?" Weyland asked shakily. He was beginning to recover some of his wits, despite the two nearly headless corpses lying near him. The big man had saved him. But there was something strange about him. Weyland was frightened, no scratch that. He was scared shitless. But with the immediate threat gone, he was beginning to come to his senses. And all his senses told him not to take his "saviour" at face value.

"You must be relocated," the big man repeated as if this was so obvious no further questions were required.

"Wait! I'm grateful for you rescuing me but I'm not going anywhere till I find out what's going on. Who are you? Who sent you? Was it Van Grey?" the questions began flooding out of Weyland now. His manic inquisitions were as much an involuntary effect of the shock as a conscious effort to stall for time, to figure out what to do.

"No more questions. You must be relocated." the big man spoke again. Without waiting for a reply he shifted the huge rifle in his left hand and withdrew something from the inside of his jacket. Weyland's blood ran cold as once again he stared down the barrel of a pistol, silenced this time.

"No, no! What are you doing? You just saved me! What-"

That's as far as he got before a dart from the silenced gun hit him square in the chest. He plucked it out still sputtering angrily when his hand suddenly refused to obey him further and fell by his side. As Weyland lost consciousness he though he saw a second figure behind the big man. Then he thought no more.


End file.
